


to dust we shall return

by stelladown



Series: dust [2]
Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: Amnesia, Cannonballing into the lethe, Daddy Issues, Dominant Bottom, Feral Achilles, Flashbacks, Foreplay, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Heavy Angst, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Memories, Memory Loss, Mostly hurt, Oral Sex, Panic Attacks, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Power Imbalance, Reunions, Rough Sex, Service Top, Swordfighting, The Iliad References, The Odyssey References, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-17 11:54:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 39,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29350038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stelladown/pseuds/stelladown
Summary: Achilles is free from his contract. He's not free from his past.While Patroclus tries to bring him back to himself, Zagreus just wants to know where they stand.
Relationships: Achilles/Patroclus (Hades Video Game), Achilles/Zagreus (Hades Video Game), Patroclus/Zagreus (Hades Video Game)
Series: dust [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2155935
Comments: 113
Kudos: 153





	1. Chapter 1

Achilles’s hand is heavy in his own as they cross through the gate. Here the river Lethe cuts through the soft meadow in a familiar shape between the cobblestones and clusters of white flowers; Zagreus can feel his heart speed up, though it means nothing to Achilles, not yet.

"He’s just ahead," Zagreus whispers. "Past the stairs."

The warrior's grip tightens, almost crushing his fingers.

"Don’t let me turn back." A tremble in his voice still. "No matter what I tell you. Zagreus, will you -"

"I promise."

Zagreus leads him over the cobblestone bridge, slowing his own anxious steps down to let Achilles set the pace. It feels strange to be the one in front, pulling the lionhearted hero forward when this is the last place Zagreus wants to be, but Achilles needs him and none of the rest of it matters, not after what they've been through to get here.

Behind the soft whisper of the Lethe and the petal-strewn wind, always stronger in this glade even with no trees to agitate it, there's a voice. It takes a moment for Achilles to hear it. He stops in place with one foot still lifted, body frozen.

"It makes no difference, does it? Orion and Heracles were placed in the sky, not left to wither. They could have placed you in the sky instead and I'd never know."

There’s an audible hitch in Achilles’s breath. His hand unlaces from Zagreus’s. Before he can say anything, Achilles is striding forward, already climbing the stairs. As he reaches the eighth step, he stands completely still with his arms at his sides, the wind tousling his hair and sending his chlamys billowing out like a flag.

"We should have stayed there on Pelion and let the cities burn," comes Patroclus's distant, weary voice.

"If I could do it again," Achilles says, low in his throat, "we would be there still."

Zagreus can't see the look on Patroclus’s face from down here on the bridge, but he can imagine it - astonishment, his dark eyes growing wide. Maybe he's standing up now, coming closer, trying to see if it's really him.

"Achilles. Achilles Pelides."

On instinct, just wanting to see them, Zagreus takes a step forward, but before his foot even reaches the ground he knows it's over. He can't interrupt this, not when they've been waiting so long. This is the end of his chapter in a story that started before he was born.

"You fool," Patroclus murmurs. His voice turns the sentiment into a gentle chide. "You absolute fool."

"I am that and more," is Achilles’s solemn answer.

The silence that follows is long enough, loaded enough, that Zagreus hesitates, biting down on his lips, watching the wind play at Achilles’s golden hair and wondering if he'll ask Zagreus for help, wondering if he could hold his hand again and be in the story for just a minute longer, but then Achilles moves forward from the stairs until all he can see is the top of his head, and after that he's gone.

* * *

There are no stars in Elysium, but it feels like twilight, when the sunset would have swept over the fields and hushed the birds, sending in the cool breezes of late summer. There would have been a fire, of course, and a rack of lamb's ribs turning on a spit, soaked in some kind of marinade of Patroclus’s devising; when the meat was done, the men would have devoured it with some strong wine and barley bread. Achilles can almost hear the nicker of the horses in the stable, feel the smoldering ache in his back after a hard day's ride. As the night deepened further, he would have retreated to his tent and found Patroclus there, saying something to make him laugh, and he'd have gone to him with no preamble, spread him out and taken him until he lost his words to pleasure. They would have slept, hands intertwined, maybe his head on Patroclus’s breast, on a bed of straw and skins, listening to the fire crackle and the crickets sing.

There are no horses in Elysium or stables to hold them. There are no crickets or lambs, and no barley, and no hunger to sate. If his men are here, they are past remembering, one of the many formless wisps that keep their distance from this glade, as if repelled by the reminder of mortality. But they've made it - the two of them, at least, with no more ships to sail or wars to fight - made it to an eternity of peace in this strange land. It may not be Pyrrha, or Opus, but it's theirs.

Achilles hadn't realized how accustomed he had become to walls. The valley that Patroclus has led him to is narrow, but with nothing solid to hold him in, he feels unmoored, adrift like a tiny vessel lost in a gray-green sea. Achilles keeps the steep cliff at his back when they rest, needing to feel the pressure there, but Patroclus has always preferred the open air. This place suits him. When the silence sets in - a restful, whole silence, the two of them leaving their questions aside for later - Achilles lets his gaze idle on Patroclus, the little movements of his hands and the way his chest rises when he breathes in, the only vibrant thing in this muted landscape.

It could have been weeks, could have been hours. It doesn't matter anymore. At some point, Patroclus is warming his hands over the ghost-blue flame in one of the braziers, whistling a tune to himself for his own enjoyment, and Achilles makes up his mind. He comes closer until he can feel the heat from the brazier. He wraps his arms around Patroclus from behind, and the whistling stops. The scent of his hair, something deep and familiar, pulls at him, unraveling a thread inside. He loosens Patroclus’s chlamys, twin to his own, and it flutters to the ground. Achilles breathes in the air from the hollow of his neck, lets it linger over his mouth.

"There you are," Patroclus says after a moment.

Achilles can feel the rumble of his voice below his chin, against his chest, vibrating into him. Patroclus turns away from the brazier to face him without leaving his arms. Eyes closed, lost in his scent, Achilles seeks out Patroclus’s mouth and finds it blind, meets the softness of his full lips and rasp of his beard. He could find his way here from across a thousand oceans and always Patroclus would lead him in, like a ship in harbor, to where he belongs. Achilles lingers in his kiss and breathes in his breath.

Patroclus’s hands are moving now, taking down Achilles’s chlamys and warming his bare neck with his palms. His horse-tamer's touch carries calmness, steadiness, as he unlaces Achilles’s cuirass. The small distance between their bodies seems charged, as if memories were spilling out into the air, and suddenly Achilles wants to feel his skin as well, feel him warm and corporeal. After all this time, his fingers still remember the quickest way to slip a man free of his armor without needing to be told. The swell of muscle below his collarbone, the dark coils of hair that run stiff down to his belly, as familiar as the stars at Pelion. Achilles lets his fingers fan out just to feel the rise and fall of his breath; after a moment, Patroclus covers Achilles’s hand with his own and presses it deeper into his chest, letting him feel the spectral pulse and flutter of life caught there.

"Yours," Patroclus reminds him.

"I would," Achilles starts, and already Patroclus is leaning in, waiting, "share my love. As we - as before."

"I would have you," he answers.

Patroclus lies on his back, thick hair in curls over the pale grass, dappled in light from the brazier, and the sight of it pulls Achilles’s heart open. He leans over to capture his mouth, feeling Patroclus’s body rise underneath him, all of his senses rich and saturated and blooming again, his love bright enough to flood the pallor of Elysium. Patroclus holds him closer, strong arms pulling him into an embrace, and slides a hand down to press the small of Achilles’s back against his hips so that he can feel the hardness waiting there, a spear against a shield. The gesture feels familiar. Something stirring in his mind. Achilles has felt Patroclus’s hands move like this before. When was it? He can smell it now, smell him stinking of blood and cold as the sea. Achilles had burrowed himself next to his body on the winding shroud and lifted his stiff arms over his back until they could hold him again, and one of his hands had slipped away, limp, unable to feel his love or his choked apologies - washing the clotted blood from beneath his navel, the cruel, jagged tear in his stomach gaping through to the pink tissue and loops of bowel beneath, how still he had been on the white wool, the dark imprints Achilles’s hands had left on his cold skin from grasping him like he could shake him back into life -

Achilles crawls away to the side to retch, hard and empty. The grass flickers and blurs underneath him. There’s no one else here. No one else here. Achilles is somewhere else, somewhere else in his head. His skin stings with cold where he had been warm and flushed only moments ago. His breath is uneven, out of sync with the movement of his ribs - as though the air he needs is trapped somewhere, as though he needs air at all in this lack of a body, in this dead body holding a dead body.

A hand rests on his shoulder and he recoils from the touch, the muscles along his back clenching and releasing, readying for a fight that isn't here. A fight he lost. Patroclus on the pyre, dog's blood and stinking flames and twelve dead boys tied and burning. Ashes on his face, in his mouth. His stomach clenches and he gags onto his knees as though the memory were poison, dry heaving but the ashes are still there.

"Achilles. Lay back -"

"Don’t," he warns.

Achilles reaches for his linothorax with hands that feel like stones, trying to fix the straps but his hands are shaking too violently to make them move. His eyes sting from being held open - afraid to blink, afraid of the blackness behind them.

"I can't. I can't." He gives up on the cuirass and drops it. He reaches for his chlamys instead. "I’m sorry."

Patroclus is a dark blur in his peripheral vision.

"Do you think I only love you for what your body can do? Lay back. Come to me."

"Your skin," Achilles tries to explain, but it comes out as a sob. Unable to recover his voice, he stands, clutching his chlamys white-knuckled against his bare chest like it could cover his shame, blindfold him.

"That body is gone." Patroclus is speaking slowly from below him. "That world is gone. I’m right here, now, waiting for you, if you'll come to me."

The words drag themselves from his throat, strangled, barely comprehensible. "I can smell your blood."

"Achilles Pelides. Turn away from it and come to me."

But he can't. He can't do both. He can't turn away from his death and he can't come back to Patroclus, not like this. Staggering into the mist like a drunkard, Achilles stumbles over the small stones and flowers, bushes tearing at his chiton, the sound of his own voice taunting him, choked-off sobs, keening and sniffing like a kicked dog. He walks through the valley with his eyes blurred until he finds a wall, and once he's stopped, the momentum fades and his legs give out and he falls to his knees, and he must have slept because when he opens his eyes again the wall is gone and a fire is burning, chlamys draped over him like a sheet, Patroclus whistling a different tune.

The silence that settles back over Elysium is filled with ghosts.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> they will be happy eventually I promise, just not for another couple of chapters  
>    
> **!CW! - (enthusiastically consensual) rough sex**

Zagreus finds his mother in a sunlit garden overflowing with more colors than he's ever seen. When he dies, he can still see little flashes of the sun behind his closed eyes, green and pink and running away when he tries to look at them. He holds the image in his mind like a precious jewel, saving it for Achilles, closing his eyes and refreshing the memory whenever he can put Stygius down, trying to hang onto the way the sun felt and how it made the yellow wheat glow, his mother's ribbons and lavender sprigs and her smile, so many different kinds of blue, the way she said "my son," until he's pushed his way into Elysium.

Patroclus is sitting by himself on the cobblestones with a stack of dried river reeds, working them into some sort of narrow basket. At the sound of hissing footsteps, he looks up and gives Zagreus a bland smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

"Oh, um … hi, Patroclus," Zagreus fumbles, swallowing. There’s no sign of Achilles here, from what he can tell, not wanting to make it obvious that he was looking or that he's disappointed. The memory of sunshine wavers, replaced with worry.

"He’s gone for a walk," Patroclus informs him noncommittally, reading his mind.

"I ... oh."

There’s nothing in Patroclus’s expression or the way he's deftly twisting the reeds around each other that gives Zagreus any clue about what he's thinking. He had expected them to be together - why wouldn't they be, after all this time? It doesn't necessarily mean anything, he thinks, trying to reassure himself against the nervous tightness in his stomach.

"I doubt he's gone far." The Myrmidon holds the circular base of his basket up to inspect it from underneath. His voice is calm, emotionless. "I'm sure you can find him, if you've a mind to."

"Which way did he go?" Zagreus asks tentatively.

"Across the river, down the stone path." Patroclus gestures vaguely with a hand full of reeds. "Don’t worry, it's safe to step in, as long as you keep your mouth closed."

Hesitant, Zagreus dips a fiery toe into the white mist of the Lethe, testing the water. Either there's not much of a current or it's deceptively still; it barely comes up past his greaves. With wide steps, he crosses to the mossy bank on the other side, the flames on his feet crackling and spitting.

There’s a narrow path here lined with pale white stones, leading into what looks like an olive grove; he hadn't realized there were trees in Elysium. Zagreus follows the trail, low-hanging fog and gnarled, thin roots obscuring the way forward, and tries unsuccessfully to keep his mind from wandering. Have they been arguing? Could it have been about him? Achilles had told him once that the last words Patroclus said to him were in anger. They had both sounded so certain when he left them on the bridge, though. He had hoped to see them together and smiling, as happy as they deserve to be. Just like he'd hoped to see his mother, and stay with her, and that had turned out to be impossible.

Zagreus is lost in thought, frowning, when something crumbles under his foot and throws him off balance - he trips backward, landing hard on his elbows, skidding downhill and kicking up gravel and silt, trying to grab onto something but there's nothing to hold. He ends up flipped over on his stomach at the bottom of the hill with dirt in his mouth. Zagreus pushes himself up onto his knees with a grimace, working the dust free with his tongue and spitting. The skin on his left arm is pink and raw; gingerly, he flicks away a pebble embedded just above his elbow.

"You took quite a tumble there," says Achilles.

Zagreus comes to a shaky stand, brushing gravel off his thighs. Achilles is leaning against an olive tree with his arms folded. Behind him, where the grove ends, is a small circular temple made of grey-streaked white stone. Only three columns and a stretch of the inner wall still stand; the rest of it is crumbled in a heap, shapeless white bricks and boulders spread out over the tile, some of them fallen into a little tributary of the Lethe that runs alongside the temple, churning the restless current.

"I ... guess I wasn't paying attention," Zagreus admits.

Wordlessly, Achilles walks over to the river and dips a corner of his green chlamys in the water. With his eyes downcast, he carries it dripping over to Zagreus, lifts his scratched arm up by the wrist and washes the dirt from the abrasion. Zagreus sucks in air through his teeth, trying not to react to the pain - it's just a scrape, he's not a kid anymore. The embarrassment stings more than his skin does; beneath it, a little jump in his heartbeat from being this close to him again, the touch of his hand.

"Were you looking for me?" Achilles asks, dabbing the wound one last time, then letting go. He wrings the edge of his chlamys out with both hands and lets it fall back into place, soggy and awkward at his side.

"Patroclus said you ... might have come this way."

Achilles isn't meeting his gaze. Something’s weighing on him, something physical almost, lowering his broad shoulders and keeping his head bowed. There are a thousand questions hovering in Zagreus’s throat, a thousand things he wants to say - that he's missed him, that it doesn't feel like home anymore when he's not there but it's okay and he's getting used to it, that he can come back and visit if he wants and Nyx said she has a place where he can come in without having to see father - but none of them sound right, either too childish or too desperate.

"It’s good to see you," Zagreus makes himself say instead, trying to sound cheerful, leaving it open for Achilles to return the sentiment.

"How have you been?" Achilles is staring to the side, his eyes unfocused. His voice sounds husky, tight, all in the same tone instead of rising like a question at the end.

"I saw her. Mother. She - " and he stops because Achilles has lifted his head, and Zagreus thinks he might turn to look at him, but he doesn't "- she was so ... she didn't even know I was alive, but the way she -" Achilles smiles, a little turn at the corner of his mouth, and Zagreus is just babbling now "- I wish you could meet her, sir. She has the most beautiful garden, and the sun, the sunlight just lights everything up and it's so green, and the sky, I'd only seen it at night but when it's blue and there aren't any stars, it's - I've never seen anything like it, I - do you miss it?"

The last part comes out by accident. Zagreus winces, but it doesn't seem to change Achilles’s strange mood at all.

"What does she look like? Your mother." Dodging the question.

"She’s tall, and her hair is yellow - like you, I guess. She has my, my green eye, and she smiles a lot."

"She must be very beautiful," Achilles murmurs. The sound of it sends a warm rush down the back of his neck, lighting his cheeks. Zagreus shifts on his feet and stifles down the memory of the last time Achilles used that word, with his voice low and rough and Zagreus on his knees - but it lingers in the back of his mind anyway like a curse, drawing his attention to all the things he's trying not to focus on, the effortless swell of his strong arms half-hidden by the chlamys, all the other parts of Achilles that are hidden that he's seen before, now, under his robes and behind his quiet composure.

"Did you come back just to tell me of her?" the warrior asks quietly. The wind catches his hair again, makes Zagreus shiver.

"No. I’m not ... made to be on the surface, I guess." It's hard to keep the disappointment out of his voice, though he's trying, for Achilles’s sake. "We only talked for a little while, and then it started to hurt, and I ... ended up back home.”

"I’m sorry, Zagreus." Achilles is looking at his hands. His lips tighten, as if holding back a thought, and then he whispers, half to himself, "Sometimes we get what we want, and it's..."

The worry that's gripped him since he saw Patroclus alone pulls even tighter until he can't stand to keep it unspoken anymore. "Sir, what - what's going on? Has something happened between you two?"

In reply, Achilles turns his head away so Zagreus can't see his face at all.

"Because I know how badly he wanted to see you, and that you - you've missed him so much, and I just don't understand - I thought ..."

Achilles folds his arms, muscles rigid and locked. It looks less like a defensive gesture and more like he's huddling up against a sudden chill, his palms flat over his cuirass. He still hasn't looked at Zagreus once during this entire conversation. Does he not want Zagreus to see him, or is there something about Zagreus being here that's bothering him in particular?

The continued silence is starting to bore holes into his equilibrium. He just wants Achilles to talk to him again, even if it's about nothing. They don't have to talk about Patroclus, or the surface, or anything. It wasn't supposed to happen like this - his punishment is over, the contract is voided, Patroclus is right there, but he's standing alone with the same look on his face that he'd carried in his nightmares, the same haunted distance that had come over him when he warned Zagreus about the consequences of his love.

"Achilles, please say something," Zagreus pleads, too worried to care how it sounds anymore.

When there's still no answer, he steps closer and reaches up to touch Achilles’s shoulder, his fingertips barely grazing the chlamys. Achilles’s entire body jerks with tension as if he'd been shocked. Zagreus pulls back and his hand hovers, not wanting to let go but not wanting to make him upset, worry surging up into his throat.

"Zagreus, I can't," comes Achilles’s raw, broken voice after a moment. "I just need .... time. Will you tell him that for me? That I ..."

Achilles turns to look at him for the first time, tears to his chin, his mouth twisted up and his teeth bared in a crooked sob, shoulders shaking with every unsteady half-breath. It’s the worst thing Zagreus has ever seen. The raw pain of his expression hits him with physical force. Achilles covers his face with a hand and walks away toward the ruined temple, a green shape fading into the mist, leaving Zagreus to find his breath. Whatever he had planned to say, whatever comfort he thought he could offer Achilles, has evaporated. He doesn't know how the story goes anymore - he can't even read it.

Picking his steps over the loose stones and olive roots, blinking back his own tears, Zagreus walks up the hill toward Patroclus’s glade. The Myrmidon is standing in his cobblestone circle, watching him wade across the river. His finished basket rests on the ground. When their eyes meet, Patroclus tilts his head in sympathy and crosses his arms.

"I thought of warning you," he says, with gentleness softening his quiet voice, "but I assumed perhaps it would be different without my presence."

Zagreus swallows, rubs his eyes. He hadn't realized how sore his left hip was from the fall until he'd put weight on it. He feels dizzy, empty, as if seeing Achilles in so much pain had sucked him dry.

"If you don't mind my saying so," Patroclus remarks, "you look terrible."

He reaches behind his basket for an ornate silver mug and carries it to Zagreus, pressing it into his hand and firmly folding Zagreus’s fingers around the handle, giving him no opportunity to protest.

"Drink, prince. I only keep this with me for your benefit, anyhow."

Obediently, Zagreus sips at the thick, crimson liquid until it coats his dry mouth. Patroclus stands in front of him until he finishes the entire mug, inspecting to make sure it's empty before letting Zagreus hand it back to him.

"Is there anything I can do, sir?" Zagreus asks, clearing his throat. "For ... the two of you?"

"Patroclus, not sir," he corrects. "And you've given him back to me. I’m afraid he's the only one who can decide whether he wants to stay."

The Myrmidon kneels to rinse the mug out with the fog-white water of the Lethe until it runs clear. Zagreus hadn't realized how tall he was or how long his legs were; he's only ever seen him reclining before. Seeing him in motion is strange, distracting, rattling around in his head like a stone stuck in his greaves. The thought floats into his mind of what he must have looked like with Achilles’s arms around him, narrow lips pressed into a full, bearded mouth, and Zagreus clears his throat again louder than he needs to.

"I’m sorry, Patroclus," he says, half for that thought and half for everything else.

"You have nothing to apologize for. Indeed, I ... regret much of my earlier indifference." Patroclus straightens, regarding him almost curiously, his brown eyes bright and inquisitive. "I had not truly believed that you were capable of bringing him back. I’m not certain I would have been able to do the same, were I in your circumstance."

"Achilles says you were even braver than he was. You’d have stopped at nothing to rescue him, I’m sure of it."

"Oh, the rescuing, yes," Patroclus says, "but not the returning."

Zagreus shakes his head, not following. "The returning?"

"You brought him back to me and then walked away, alone. I’ve asked myself if I would have been able to walk away from Achilles as you did, were I in your place. I'm not proud of my answer."

Zagreus’s face is suddenly very hot. He examines his feet and the dry, brown grass below them, letting the embarrassment run over his cheeks and up to his ears, hoping Patroclus won't notice. Talking about Achilles here was strange enough when his feelings were private, tucked away; now that he knows what his love feels like, his weight above him, golden hair trailing over his chest and his hand locked tight in Zagreus’s own -

"I told you before that he was easy to love," Patroclus says in a slightly softer voice. "I can tell you now that he is not easy to be without, either."

Zagreus’s teeth find his bottom lip. Sensing his discomfort, Patroclus continues that sentence: "Which is not to imply that you should have to. Only that ... he seems to be in a place neither of us can reach at the moment."

"He wanted me to tell you that ... he needs time," Zagreus says softly.

He looks up in time to see Patroclus’s stricken face, his brows drawn and eyes distant, for a brief moment before the vulnerability disappears and his features return to neutrality. Patroclus is always doing that, he realizes, keeping himself hidden behind a mask of stillness. Even when he talks about painful things, he says them so quietly, matter-of-factly, that it almost seems like he's removing himself from having to feel any of it. Maybe it's something he had to learn after years of being alone. It’s an uncomfortable thought; Zagreus has never been able to hide anything. He wouldn't even know how to start.

"Time is the one thing we both have," Patroclus responds. After a moment, he walks over to his cobblestone circle and sits, the same familiar pose. "Your time, I’m sure, is far more limited. I won't keep you any longer, prince."

Zagreus turns to look at the golden doorway, formless emotions swirling around in the pit of his stomach. Theseus and Asterius, rats, satyrs, father. Persephone. It’s what Achilles wants; Achilles would want him to keep going, even if he didn't say it this time. Zagreus has made it this far knowing that no matter what happened, no matter how badly he failed or how many stupid mistakes he made, he would always come home to Achilles in the hallway, waiting with a smile and something soft to say to cushion the sting of his father's taunts. And he'll keep going - he has to - however long it takes - but it's harder now. It’s just so hard not to have anyone to talk to -

"Know that he sends his love with you," Patroclus murmurs, so quiet that Zagreus almost doesn't catch it past the rush of the door opening and the shouts of the soldiers beyond it, Stygius already warm in his hands, and he clings to those words like he had held on to the sunshine.

* * *

Patroclus is weaving reeds together when Achilles returns to the glade, crafting something small and round shaped like a bowl. There’s a fire lit, burning low; he's learned that the wood here holds too much damp from the mist to ignite well, and also that Patroclus only lights these fires because he thinks it brings Achilles comfort, a familiar sight from their years of camp and travel.

Achilles lifts his robe to cross the river, and the sound of the Lethe splashing under his feet alerts Patroclus to his presence. He looks up with his deep brown eyes reflecting the orange firelight, hands continuing to work at the slender reeds.

"Thank you for the fire," Achilles says, voice stiff.

"Such as it is," Patroclus replies, but he's smiling.

All he can hear is the coursing of the river and the snap of the flames, so unlike the constant murmuring of the house. He closes his eyes and is surprised to find his eyelids heavy, his head drooping somewhat, as though his body were telling him to sleep after a long day of riding or combat. The strange sensation follows itself with a yawn.

"I feel ... weary."

Patroclus has already set down his reeds and is unfastening his chlamys. He spreads it over the grass by the fire, smoothing it out and adjusting the edges as Achilles rubs his temples, grimacing. There have been times when he would rest, close his eyes for a moment, but never this physical need, this ache in his skull.

"Come," Patroclus says, tapping the makeshift bedsheet. "Make yourself comfortable."

Achilles can feel himself hesitating, his body balking like a spooked horse. Between the foreignness of Elysium, this open glade with no walls and a starless ceiling of ghost-white vapor, and the phantoms he envisions behind every shadow - vivid now after his punishment, fresh in his mind, all of the corpses he's left behind, burned or beheaded or dragged from a horse, left for dogs - could he sleep? What would wait for him if he were to dream again?

"Do you want me near or at a distance?" asks Patroclus quietly.

"I don't know," Achilles confesses.

He lies on his left side, facing away from Patroclus, and draws his knees up to his chest. After a moment, something soft drapes over his shoulders - Patroclus has brought Nyx’s black shawl. He pulls it up to his chin like a child's soft blanket and finds himself talking just to fill the silence, his words coming out stilted, tangled.

"Since I left the house.... I've felt.... I've _felt_. It’s been so long. Like waking up from a dream. I... when I look at myself, I seem.... solid again, and inside, I..."

"You felt nothing for all this time?" Patroclus’s voice is gentle, but there's an undercurrent of something there.

"I felt your absence," Achilles goes on, staring into the fire. "A constant pain. But the rest of it... I wasn't alive, not in any other sense. I felt no hunger or exhaustion or desire. No ties to memory. It was as if I was... disconnected from what I'd done. Even in my punishment, my dreams, I did not feel what I had truly felt in those moments."

"And now?"

"Now I feel... everything. My breath, my... insides. My senses have returned, but ... I can't ... I can't temper them."

Hunger. A hollow in his chest that can't be filled with food, that won't go away. The smell of Patroclus’s hair and how badly he had wanted to feel him again, bury himself and all of his burgeoning senses inside his arms and stay there. How quickly that feeling had decayed, how quickly his blood had run from him. Guilt, with its violent tang, at running from Patroclus, both here in Elysium and after his death. Guilt at the sound of Zagreus’s voice, wanting him to be the Achilles he knows, not this defective half-living walking wound in the shape of a man. How Zagreus’s touch had terrified him, frozen him still from the memory of desire. And always the memory of Patroclus on the shroud, cold and pallid, washing his blood, the metal smell of it, stinking, cloying.

"I remember things and I remember how they felt," Achilles whispers. "How they smelled, tasted. How you... when I look at you, I..."

Patroclus shushes him like he would quiet a noisy dog, one sharp sound to get his attention.

"That’s enough for now." An order, gentle but firm. "It’s time to sleep."

Achilles closes his eyes, opens them again almost immediately, fear pulsing through his blood with every beat of his false heart.

"Would you come nearer?" he asks, voice failing.

A rustle of movement. Achilles can't feel him. His back is exposed and open. He holds onto the corner of the shawl with his knuckles white and abandons what little is left of his pride.

"Nearer," he whispers.

Patroclus lies down beside him, fabric brushing against the back of his bare arms. Achilles keeps his body turned away and his eyes closed.

"Nearer still?" Patroclus’s voice is very quiet.

"Please."

He can feel Patroclus’s hands gather his hair away from his face, combing it back with gentle fingers along his scalp. Patroclus traces a line behind Achilles’s ear and down the rigid muscle of his neck, slipping below the chlamys and leaving his hand pressed firm against his breastbone.

"Let me hold guard. What dream would dare intrude against my vigil?"

Achilles drifts to sleep, then, with Patroclus’s familiar arm around him, the soft repetition of the crackling fire, the lapping of the water against the sedge; he can imagine it as the Spercheios, his boyhood river, if he tries, and see the small white winter flowers of the hellebore that grew along the rivermouth. There are good things in his memory, too, if he can find them.

The salt spray of the Aegean against his skin. His mother's voice, musical and loud. Zagreus asleep with his young head buried in Cerberus’s fur, a protective paw over his shoulder. The taste of honeyed wine and fresh spring water. Patroclus laughing at something. Patroclus bending him over a felled tree, bark scraping at his stomach, a fist in Achilles’s long hair, biting at his lips to keep Chiron from hearing. Zagreus grabbing for his hand in ecstasy. The gentle rock and sway of a cot in the belly of a warship.

His eyes open. The fire has gone out. He turns onto his back, Nyx’s shawl twisting under his arm, and looks for Patroclus. Patroclus’s body is there, motionless on its stomach, an arm stretched out toward Achilles. _Not moving, not moving_. Achilles pushes up onto his arms with a cold burst of terror and scrambles backwards on the grass away from it. He comes to his feet and runs, heart pounding in his throat, stumbling into the Lethe and landing on his hands and knees in it, his robe soaked, wind-chilled, hair dripping in his face. His lungs are tearing at him and he has to stop, bending over in some featureless field, white shades fading in and out around him like blinking lights. He thinks he might vomit again but the feeling passes, leaving him swaying.

Achilles curls up on the grass with his hands over his face until sleep takes him, pulling his consciousness away with a rough grasp as it had on the shore of the Aegean with his body sore from the chariot. Patroclus had woken him then, a ghost that he couldn't touch. This time when Patroclus wakes him, his arms are solid, and he lifts Achilles like a wounded soldier and carries him over the back of his shoulders to their glade, filling the silence with his whistling as if to tell Achilles that he doesn't have to explain.

* * *

When Zagreus finds him again, Achilles is stretching his calves by the ruined temple, working out the strange knots of tension in his newly-sensitive muscles. In the house of Hades he had stood for days at a time and felt nothing; he might as well have been floating. The rest of his body has returned to him with all the stinging and aches of a sleeping limb, the cravings and whims of a starved man.

"Does this place mean something to you, sir?"

"Not particularly," Achilles tells him, bending his right leg now, hands folded on his knee. "It feels familiar, and the shades leave it alone."

"It’s ... I like it," Zagreus says. He’s looking around at the columns, what's left of the smooth temple wall and its domed roof of marble. "My mother has columns like this in her garden."

"Have you seen her again?"

"Yeah - I - it's getting easier, like you said. I can catch onto father's tells now. He can't surprise me anymore. And Persephone - mother - she's ..."

Achilles glances up to see his smile, his bright eyes. The words he's saying seem to fade away into the sound of the river, the faint breeze, and he finds himself staring at Zagreus in a kind of daze, mouth dry, heart beginning to stir. The cravings of a starved man.

"And I have to find out why," Zagreus is saying.

"Of course," Achilles says suddenly, too fast to have been an actual response.

Picking up on the strangeness in Achilles’s voice, Zagreus stops.

"Is something wrong, sir?"

Achilles has loved this boy for so long and in so many different ways - there are seven kinds, or so the gods say, but he can remember the exact moment when his love became _eros_ , when Zagreus had whispered his name in that strained, private voice and it had struck him like Apollo's arrow, vulnerable and weak, left him in the doorway in a trance as Zagreus spilled out his secret. The strength of his desire was overwhelming; he had no defense against it and he still has none, even here, when he should be attentive, should be listening wholly - of course he cares, he's proud, he wants to hear every detail, but this animal desire is growing louder and stronger and clawing at everything else in his head.

"Was there," Achilles is asking, unable to stop himself, tense as a wire, "something else you wanted from me?"

His eyes are moving across Achilles’s face, unsure. Achilles reaches out to touch his cheek, and it's as though a blossom opens beneath his fingers. Zagreus’s eyes widen and his mouth opens a little in surprise. His emotions are so bright, so pure.

"Here?" he asks, an awkward pitch in his voice.

As badly as Achilles wants this - and he does, desperately, beyond his capacity to restrain it - he won't take anything from the prince that the prince won't give him freely. It’s reprehensible enough that he's made this mistake once and that he knows he's about to do it again, but the urge inside him is louder than his conscience now, burying his guilt. He wants to step into it and let it possess him entirely, let this urge shut him down until he can't think or feel or remember.

He lowers his hand to Zagreus’s pauldron, little bones sharp under his palm.

"Yeah. Yes," Zagreus says immediately, swallowing. "I want ..."

Eager, he helps Achilles loosen the skulls and lay them down, chiton falling to his waist, this sweet treasure with his eyes full of adoration. A hesitant, hopeful smile plays over his lips, and then Achilles can't stand the distance between them anymore - with a tight grip under Zagreus’s thighs, he lifts him off the ground and holds him close, covering that smile with his own desperate mouth. Zagreus clasps his legs around him, pointing his feet just far enough beyond Achilles’s chlamys to keep it from burning.

Achilles kisses him until he can feel him rise against his chest, surprised again at the intensity of Zagreus’s response, the way his lips tense and press back, closing his mouth and then granting Achilles the pleasure of entering it again. It had seemed like shyness before on Mount Pelion, but this must be how Zagreus prefers it: like small sips of wine, tempting, building up to a downpour, whimpering into Achilles’s open mouth with his tongue flame-hot and hungry. Nothing else has ever made Achilles burn like this, driven his blood hard and fast like this.

He pulls back just to look at the color in Zagreus’s beautiful face, the pink flush almost reaching his bare chest, warm and pulsing with vibrant energy.

"Do you want me to touch you?" Achilles asks, his voice coming out low.

"Yes, sir."

The way he says it feels less like subservience and more like breathless excitement. Achilles has never required the honorific - Zagreus had introduced the term himself, perhaps at his father's urging, long ago - but the thrill of hearing it in this context is undeniable, to his shame.

Achilles carries him to the temple wall, lets him rest his back against the smooth marble. His kiss travels from Zagreus’s lips to his jaw, to the bounding pulse in his neck, to the same hollow of his collarbone that had made him writhe before, and as he lets his tongue trace the soft skin, he can feel the little sounds escaping from Zagreus’s throat. Already Elysium has disappeared. His world has reduced itself to Zagreus and his sounds and his own arousal, bronze-hard and furious, taking him over. 

"Do you want me inside you?"

The relief in Zagreus’s voice is unmistakable.

"More than - more than anything, sir."

Zagreus is already taking off his greaves, using the wall and his thighs for leverage as he slips his tights over one foot, then the other, baring more and more of his shapely thighs, the flex of a pale calf. With one hand supporting the prince's weight, Achilles moves his already-lopsided chiton to the side, revealing Zagreus’s slender cock stiff against his curled-up stomach.

"Nectar," Achilles growls, too focused to wait.

Zagreus fumbles at his belt, his fingers shaking, and finds one of the small bottles he so enjoys tying to his affections. He manages to screw it open but drops the lid in his haste. Achilles guides one long, pale leg up over his shoulder, careful to keep the flames away from his hair, and braces Zagreus against the wall, holding him aloft one-handed. The nectar is pungent, honey-sweet and thick on his fingers. He waits for permission, seeking out Zagreus’s gaze and holding it, nectar-dripping hand poised just outside his entrance, and again it takes Zagreus a moment to register that he's being prompted - _only what you'll freely give_.

"Sir, please," voice quavering, "you - you don't have to wait, I - ”

Interrupting him, Achilles guides a finger into the heat inside, past the knuckle, remembering with an intense clutch of desire how the prince had reacted last time, spellbound by the way his lip catches in his teeth and his stomach hollows from the force of his gasp. Letting the bottle fall, Zagreus throws his arms around Achilles’s neck for balance, pulling at his chlamys, squirming helplessly as Achilles follows up with another finger, opening him, feeling Zagreus’s weight under his grip, the tension in his thighs as he twists in desperate, trapped arousal. He’s tight but slick, as ready as his inexperience will allow.

"I’ll stop if it hurts," Achilles murmurs.

Supporting Zagreus against the wall with one hand, Achilles slips the fabric of his own chiton to the side, tucking a swath of it under his belt and freeing himself. He can feel the prince's eyes on him as he slathers the rest of the nectar on his cock, working it smooth from shaft to head. Then he waits. The only thought he can hold in his half-crazed mind is whether Zagreus will beg for him - and he does, to Achilles’s incapacitating pleasure, his hips shifting down to get closer, another whispered "please."

Achilles hooks his arms beneath Zagreus’s knees and lowers him onto his cock, fully in control. The prince's legs are spread wide and his hair is mussed from sweat, laurels crooked against the wall, his face twisted in pleasure, stuttering out the kind of soft, intimate sounds that had initiated Achilles into thinking of him this way, that make his stomach clutch still to hear them. Zagreus lets himself be used, keeping his back straight as Achilles fucks into him, grabbing his chlamys in tight fists, a wet trail on his stomach from where his cock is rubbing with every thrust.

"How does it feel?" Achilles asks, just wanting to hear him say it. "How do I make you feel?"

"I love it - I love y- I love it," Zagreus gasps, the words only half formed between frantic breaths.

The sound of it rips his consciousness back open with sudden, shocking clarity. Zagreus loves him - would do anything he asked - came here just wanting to talk and Achilles is using him, trying to abandon himself, abandon his guilt inside this beautiful boy. Self-loathing smothers him like a sheet over a fire. He pulls out, feeling heavy, leaden, crumbling beneath his shame. 

"Down," he tells the prince through gritted teeth, holding him firm against the wall, waiting for his legs to lower before letting go.

Zagreus’s hands are scrabbling behind him at the wall for support, his knees buckling, red-faced and panting, flushed all the way down to his ribs. His rucked, sideways chiton is caught on his cock, an image of pure desperation.

Behind his closed eyes, Achilles is spiraling - what kind of man does this? What is he turning into? Running from Patroclus only to run again - he's losing control of himself, losing his past and his present to fear, weaker than he's ever been -

"Please," Zagreus begs softly, and there's a delirious quality in his voice that startles Achilles enough to look at him. Immediately he realizes his mistake. Zagreus’s dark brows are turned up in desperation, sweat or tears in his lashes as he begs, "Give it back, give it back, sir, please," completely lost, the most incredible sound he's ever heard, and Achilles is too far gone now to stop this. Strangling, blinding lust reenvelops him like armor, takes command until there's no retreating anymore.

"Turn," Achilles tells him then, so low that it hardly sounds like a word. The prince faces the wall with his arms up, offering himself on command, the sweat-slick curve of his pale back, his cheek pressed into the stone and his green eye half-lidded, waiting for him, pleading silently now. Achilles feels himself shove inside him before his mind can even register the motion, sending a shudder through Zagreus’s entire body as he cries out Achilles’s name. He surrenders completely to the urge, his conscience locked away in some dark place outside of his awareness, enveloped in the prince's heat and the way he's pushing back against Achilles’s hips to take in more, faster. Without thinking, Achilles reaches forward to slip his fingers into Zagreus’s mouth, his breath hot and frenzied against his palm, and the prince makes an effort to work at them with his tongue between ragged moans. With his nectared hand he pries Zagreus’s arm from where it's clutched on the wall and pulls it toward him, making his back arch further, burying himself deep and sliding back inside again and again - cupping Zagreus’s chin with his fingers spit-damp, making his lips purse -

"Ah-Achilles -" slurred under his grip "- sir, don't stop, don't stop, please-"

\- fucking him bruise-hard, as if those uncounted years of half-death, feeling nothing, desiring nothing, have suddenly cracked open and all of his need is spilling out, flooding him, an obsession - sliding his hand over Zagreus’s bent neck across his ribs and down to his cock, one long stroke and Zagreus arches beautifully beneath him, his legs nearly giving way, mouth hanging open and eyes shut, the most desperate, breathless sounds coming out -

"Oh sir please - oh gods - I - I think - I -"

\- Zagreus is already spilling into his hand, his knees drawing together, going limp, and Achilles fucks him through it until he can feel himself skidding toward the edge, dizzying, the heat and the pressure building -

"You want me to fill you?" he growls. "You want-"

"SirIwantit _please_ ," all in one breath, and Achilles’s orgasm is so sudden and strong that it sucks the air from his lungs, his grip crushing Zagreus’s wrist, a strangled sound in the back of his throat. When it's over he pulls back, trying to refocus his blurred, black-rimmed vision. Zagreus, shaking, is supporting himself against the wall with both hands. His wrist is an angry purple-red, deepening scarlet marks along his pale waist, laurel leaves shedding and disintegrating from his crooked wreath. A thin rivulet of blood runs down the inside of his thigh. It sears into Achilles like a brand - he's made him bleed - torn him, bruised him - and before he can breathe in again, his lungs stop working, blackness covering his eyes, his heart like a rabbit's.

"Achilles?" Zagreus says from somewhere, across a river, moving further away, the word stretching out and turning into an echo. Achilles can hear his mother calling him. He runs toward her, seeking her comfort. His body goes weightless, floating in the sea, held up by the nereids' soft hands, and he lets them carry him into the horizon, the sound of the waves the last thing he hears.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there will be a happy ending i promise
> 
> **!CW!: intense verbal argument**

Zagreus’s legs are shaking like reeds underneath him just from the effort of standing. Every time he breathes in, a sharp stitch pulls over his ribs. His fingers prickle from the blood slowly creeping back through his cramped wrist; he keeps flexing them, open and shut, as a substitute for doing anything else. The olive grove is empty. Achilles had been here – here, outside in the open air, buried inside him like he couldn’t wait, like there was nothing else in the entire world but Zagreus – and by the time he’d found the strength to stand without leaning on the wall, he was alone.

He kneels to pick up his pauldron from the grass, next to the half-empty nectar bottle, a pulling ache along the inside of his thighs making him wince. He’s wet where he shouldn’t be, but his mouth is dry from panting. Tucking his chiton beneath the skulls, imagining what Theseus would say if he caught the blackguard looking like this – some telling insult that would probably hit too close to home right now, too soon after whatever this was that just happened – Zagreus lingers on his knees, holding his leggings, glancing at the river on the dim possibility that he could rinse himself off first. Patroclus is standing there at the bottom of the hill with his head tilted in that curious, observant way of his, making him feel even more half-naked than he currently is.

“Left you like this, did he?” the Myrmidon asks.

Zagreus opens his mouth to say something but words aren’t coming out. Caught red-handed with his legs bare and sweat all over his face, flushed and bruised, there’s no way to hide what he looks like. Then the thought bursts into his mind – does Patroclus know about them? What if he’s angry? Have they talked about this at all? Has he just made everything a thousand times worse?

“I wouldn’t have intruded,” Patroclus says, gentleness in his tone, “except that I saw Achilles tearing through the brush in one of his frights, and I was concerned for you.”

Zagreus blinks, closes his mouth. He looks down at his leggings as if they could tell him the right thing to say in this situation.

“Should we go after him?”

“Let me worry about Achilles. As for you, there’s a thermal spring not far from here if you’d like to clean off,” Patroclus offers. His face is neutral, set in a flat, handsome mask as always, the pinch at the corners of his eyes offering the only indication of his thoughts. If Zagreus knew him better, he might be able to read something in them, but this last week is the most time they’ve ever spent together beyond brief conversations in passing, and he’d been “stranger” only a few days before that. Patroclus is a mystery still, a mystery that’s gesturing for him to stand up now.

Holding his greaves under his arm, leggings trailing in his other hand, Zagreus follows Patroclus as he takes a smaller trail leading away from the olive grove. This path curves at a gentle slope downhill, pale green cliffs rising to box them in, faceless vine-covered statues looking on in stern dispassion at the brightly-colored figures passing below. Zagreus is trying to keep his legs close together, the red continuing to burn on his face at the sensation of it, trying not to think about what he’d said or the way he had begged for it – letting himself go like that, no wonder Achilles ran off – and mercifully around the next bend, the stone path widens and fades into a vibrant blue-green pool. Clouds of thicker, more fragrant mist rise above the thin white wisps of the Lethe as it pours in a small waterfall over the smooth rocks. Zagreus can feel the humidity on his face already, sort of like Asphodel, but with a cool breeze behind it that makes his skin tingle. It smells like flowers and metal, a strange rusty note behind the floral wave.

He looks at Patroclus for some reason, as if confirming that this is the place, and the warrior turns around with the springs at his back, facing the incline of the hill. It confuses him for a moment until he makes the connection that Patroclus is politely waiting for him to disrobe. This red on his cheeks might as well be a permanent addition. Zagreus steps out of his chiton, leaving his greaves and pauldron on a flat, mossy rock, and finds his way into the milky water. It feels like the baths at home, but warmer, more activating; when the water comes up to his ribs, he clears his throat, letting his arms float out to the side as Patroclus turns around again. A rare smile lights up his solemn face.

“I’d ask to join you,” he says, chuckling, “but you’ve only just begun to relax around me, and I’d hate to ruin our progress.”

“It’s no problem,” Zagreus replies before he can think about whether it would be a problem or not.

Patroclus considers it for a moment, a hand on his bearded chin. “Are you certain? I won’t be offended either way.”

The steam and the thick heat are making him light-headed. Zagreus pushes off the solid ground with a toe and propels himself over to the face of the cliff, leaning an arm over one of the slippery rocks just to keep himself grounded; it feels like he could dissolve into this pool, all of his sore muscles melting away and leaving a skeleton behind, and at this point he wouldn’t even care.

“I don’t mind,” Zagreus tells him, sure of it this time. There must be something else in the water here besides minerals, as relaxed as he’s feeling all of a sudden, some kind of calming aura. Patroclus is slipping off his sandals now and he turns to look at the waterfall, ribbons of mist curving around each other like white braids, reaching the surface of the spring with a soft hiss. He kicks his legs a little, up and down through the thick water, holding onto his rock for leverage, feeling almost carefree. A small splash against the cliff, and he looks over to see Patroclus striding into the spring. His sleek hair is pulled back in a knot and his deep brown skin seems to glow from sweat, striking against the pale clouds. Zagreus can feel his eyes roaming greedily all over Patroclus’s body without a hint of shame, absorbing the round swell of his muscles – less angular than Achilles, softer somehow, with a thatch of short black hair over his defined chest, trailing down to –

“I should have mentioned,” Patroclus says, tossing his head to rid his face of a loose, curled strand of hair, “that the water here has peculiar properties.”

“It does?”

Not content to stay still, the Myrmidon is swimming now in a short lap around the perimeter of the spring, strong arms rising over his head and then disappearing beneath the low-hanging mist, kicking up small waves behind him that reach Zagreus and lap over his chest like warm hands.

“I’ve learned from King Theseus,” he shares between breaths, “that this pool stems from – the same source as the Lethe – and shares some of its – pleasantly amnestic quality. Purely temporary.”

He curves around Zagreus, keeping a polite distance as he passes, but Zagreus can feel Patroclus’s solid skin brush against his outstretched toes, a brief, ticklish contact that sends a warm shiver up his spine. He pulls his legs back in slight embarrassment. Maybe his body is still sensitive after having sex; just thinking the word alone would normally make his face burn, but he feels separated from the memory of Achilles thrusting inside him as though he were reading about it in a book, acted out by different characters. The embarrassment stays in a small pinpoint instead of spreading. Patroclus is completely naked only feet away from him and Zagreus is okay with this. More than okay - he could stay here for the rest of his life. Is this what the Lethe feels like?

Patroclus has stopped in the center of the spring, treading water. The dappled light of Elysium passing overhead illuminates the wet trails over his face, his thick shoulders, like jewels inlaid in burnished wood. Zagreus can feel his body reacting, a dull awareness of himself stirring, below the threshold of his ability to care.

“I’ve wanted to ask you for a while,” Patroclus says. “What was it that changed his mind, after all this time? Why did he decide to come back to me?”

“He … it wasn’t really like that.” Zagreus is kicking his legs again. It’s so easy to talk about this here. The longer he floats, the less he cares about anything. “My father changed his contract to punish him, and the only way I could think of to help him was to steal the contract and annul it. We didn’t talk about it or anything.”

“So it wasn’t by choice.”

“He missed you so much,” Zagreus tells him, without any real emotion. “If you’d heard the way he talked about you, you’d understand. I know it’s what he wanted, even if he couldn’t say it.”

Disappointment is leaking through Patroclus’s stoic mask, hardening around his eyes, turning his mouth down. Zagreus has never thought about it this way, how it must feel to learn that Achilles ended up here for any other reason than love, or even regret. Annulling the contract seemed like the most obvious thing in the world at the time. None of this had even occurred to him as a possibility. They’d be together again, happy, and nothing else would matter. It seems so childish now, for as much as he can manage to care. He’s amazed that Patroclus can feel anything strongly enough to react to it when the water feels this good and the steam is so nice and thick in the air.

Without warning, Patroclus slips below the surface, a dark blur moving beneath the haze. He comes up for air against the cliff wall, close enough to touch Zagreus. His chest hair is damp and matted down against his skin. Zagreus follows the dripping trails from the thick knot of his hair as water pools in his collarbone, overflows in streaks past the dark coins of his nipples. If Patroclus notices where his attention has gone, it doesn’t show on his face.

“You must understand,” Patroclus says after a moment, treading water again. “This is a man who has had his entire life foreordained since he was but a seed in his mother. Always he has struggled against it, that certainty. I have thought that must have been the reason why he made the arrangement he did. He had no control over the method or time of our deaths; indeed, they had been planned from the outset. But after death, well, no god had seen fit to extend their influence there. And your father was both generous and willing to bargain. I know it’s difficult for you to view him as such –“ glancing at Zagreus as if to show his sincerity “- but the gods that I knew – that we knew – to them, we were their playthings. Hector may have thrown the spear that killed me, but it was Apollo who allowed it to land.”

“I’ve never met Apollo,” Zagreus points out lazily. The rest of it is too much to hold in his mind right now, too complicated. He leans his head back against the cliff and closes his eyes, breathing in the heavy mist, thinking about flowers.

A hand on his shoulder, large and callused. “Prince, I think it’s time to get out now.”

“What?”

The hand is jostling him awake. He tries to push it aside but its grip is too strong, and he gives up after a moment, relaxing again, settling in.

“I beg your pardon,” Patroclus says, before taking ahold of Zagreus’s shoulders and steering him forcibly away from the cliff wall. Zagreus makes an indignant noise of complaint, trying to wrest himself away, but Patroclus holds him steady with little effort, marching Zagreus forward until the water reaches the small of his back.

“Are you going to fight me if I let go?”

“No,” he mumbles, chastened.

“Good. You’ll find the water dries off very quickly on its own. I’ll wait for you to dress yourself.”

It takes a concerted effort to drag his feet forward. The warmth of the water receding from his legs leaves them painfully solid, all of his muscles remembering their past aches. Zagreus stoops to retrieve his chiton and that same spot over his ribs pulls tight, making him wince. He pulls the fabric over his head, fastens the pauldron and tugs on his leggings, and his feet slowly reignite as the damp recedes, a little spark and then a flame spreading from toe to toe.

When Patroclus wades out, loosening his hair from the knot and letting it fall over his shoulders, he makes no effort to cover himself. Zagreus’s eyes widen and then avert, frantically hiding his gaze at some random point on the cliffside. How strong is the Lethe that it could have kept him from reacting to that?

“Forgive me,” he can hear Patroclus chuckle. “I’ve lost much of my propriety in death.”

“Sorry. I – I don’t mean to – I haven’t really – I know it’s different on the surface,” Zagreus manages to say, grimacing at the immature sound of his own voice.

Patroclus, cuirass strapped and robe donned, grips his hair and squeezes it out before throwing his chlamys back over his shoulders. With a polite nod at Zagreus, he starts back up the hill, and Zagreus follows in tow, finding it much easier to stand behind him than look him in the eye.

“What was that in the spring?” he has to ask after a few silent minutes of climbing, almost to the olive grove, thin silver leaves beckoning from the clifftop. “What happened?”

“It affects some more than others. I’ve never found it particularly relaxing myself.” Patroclus glances at him over his shoulder, his dark eyes sober, thoughtful. “I may not know you terribly well, but I could see you starting to change under its influence.”

Zagreus has already forgotten what it felt like. He hadn’t been worried about Achilles at all, which seems unfathomable now that the weight of it has settled back into his mind, a constant magnet that he has to force his thoughts to pull away from. And Patroclus – that weight must be even worse for him. Walking up this pebble-strewn hill with measured steps, whistling quietly to himself, there’s no visible trace of his pain – how does he manage?

“I wish it did work for you, sir – Patroclus,” he corrects himself. “Even if … just for a moment, so you could …” Could what? Forget Achilles? It had made sense in his head, but it sounds terrible out loud.

“Believe me, prince,” Patroclus murmurs, “the temptation has been there. Without my memories to keep me company, though, the loneliness would have been impossible to withstand.” A pause, and then he looks at Zagreus again, forcing a dim smile. “I might have found myself willingly conversing with our champion just to hear another voice.”

Zagreus can tell that he’s trying to lighten the conversation, whether for his own benefit or Zagreus’s. The ruined temple is empty; Patroclus doesn’t stop to investigate, but Zagreus can see his eyes traveling over the grove and the crumbled columns as he walks, looking for traces of green and gold.

“He’s done this before?” Zagreus asks, his own attention wandering to search for Achilles as well, though he has no idea what he would say or do if he found him at this point. “Disappeared, I mean?”

Patroclus waits to answer until they’ve both crossed the river back to the familiar grove, his spot on the riverbank adorned now with several woven baskets of various sizes. A stack of quartered, bark-stripped logs rests on a bed of flat stones to air out; draped over the top, tucked between the wood, is Nyx’s shawl, fluttering in the breeze.

“He’s terrified,” Patroclus states, a bluntness to his quiet voice, clipping his words. “Of me. Of this place. I know he fights to stay present, but I can see his mind leading him elsewhere. When he can’t hide it any longer, he runs. And then I wait, for pity’s sake, before I track him down.”

Hesitant, Zagreus tries to remember their last interaction, the parts that don’t make him redden when he pictures them. Achilles had seemed preoccupied by something, and then they had … and he had stopped, once, put him down and closed his eyes like he was upset. Shame trickles through Zagreus’s chest, pulls his head down like an anchor. He should have noticed that something was wrong, said something instead of begging for more – he could barely think straight, but that’s no excuse. It must have scared Achilles somehow, reminded him of something, like that one memory in the tent, whatever he had done to that prostitute - and even then Zagreus had wanted more, even with tears in Achilles’s eyes, begging for his forgiveness –

“I try to keep things familiar for him,” Patroclus continues blithely, “but I suspect you would know what that means more than I after all this time. The years he’s spent with you, I can only guess at.”

“I’m sorry,” Zagreus mumbles, staring at the singed grass under his feet.

“I’m not.”

It’s an unexpected response, and it catches Zagreus off guard. He glances up at Patroclus, who shakes his head firmly as if to scold him.

“How can I be anything but thankful? My Achilles could have spent all those years as alone as I was, carrying out the will of yet another indifferent god. Instead, he found you.” Patroclus pauses, choosing his next words very carefully. “I think … he regrets very much making the decision that he did, and yet he cannot wholly regret our being apart, because … it brought you into his life.”

Patroclus is thankful. Patroclus is thanking him for taking care of Achilles in his absence. All Zagreus can think of is his own jealousy, that twisting, shameful feeling of wondering how he could possibly compare to Patroclus and his masculinity, looking around on Pelion and wishing it had meant anything to him, wishing he could have shared any of this with Achilles. His own experience growing up with Achilles is just as much of a mystery to Patroclus and instead of being jealous, after all this time apart, he’s glad. All of the guilt is starting to build up like a physical presence in the pit of his stomach. If only that hot spring amnesia could have lasted a little longer.

As if wanting to move on, Patroclus focuses his attention abruptly on the woodpile. He lifts one of the branches, rubs it experimentally, then puts it back with a frown.

“Well, prince, I’d like to get the fire started before I go,” he sighs, “for all the good it will do with these worthless logs.”

“I could try stepping on them for you,” Zagreus offers before realizing how ridiculous that sounds. Anything would be better than standing here, awkward, lost inside his own head; Patroclus actually seems to be considering it, though, with a quick glance from his burning feet to the woodpile.

“Would you mind?”

Somewhat embarrassed, he watches as the Myrmidon assembles some fresh, thin branches over the charred remnants of the previous fire, a small circle of stones placed around it to keep it from spreading. Zagreus extends a foot, wiggling his toes on the kindling until the flame spreads, snapping and flickering from the wind, thick black smoke making his eyes sting.

“I’ll be sure to tell Achilles about our new source of tinder,” Patroclus remarks, smiling, somehow, despite everything.

Zagreus stands by the fire, watching the red-orange glow crawl along the bent limbs. This is the most he’s ever talked to Patroclus, and for as depressing as this conversation has been, he still doesn’t feel ready to end it yet. There are so many things he wants to ask - what it was like growing up together? What were Achilles’s parents like? Did they ever fight? Does Achilles ever talk about him? Does Patroclus resent him being here? 

Patroclus glances up after a moment, as if sensing his thoughts. Their eyes meet through the flame; he holds Zagreus’s gaze wordlessly, contemplative, with another tilt of his head. It occurs to Zagreus that there are probably a lot of things Patroclus wishes he could ask him, too, not all of them about Achilles. Like three pieces of a puzzle, the two corners only connecting through the one in the middle.

“May I ask a favor of you, prince?”

“Of course,” Zagreus says, rattled; he had been so caught up in Patroclus’s attention that the sound of his voice nearly made him jump. “Anything.”

“I’d like to hear what happened after my death. I’ve been … reluctant to discuss it with the shades, but … it’s past time that I knew.” In a lower voice: “If I could ask him, I would.”

“There’s a book that he – that talks about the war,” Zagreus tells him, the thought flashing into his mind. “I can bring it with me next time.”

“Thank you. It … means more than you know.”

Patroclus looks away then, into the heart of the fire, the same expressionless mask he wears returning to his solemn face, locking him shut, and the conversation is over.

* * *

He finds Achilles on a muddy patch of land surrounded by the Lethe, holding a fish that he’s caught with his bare, dripping hands. His face is wet, too, darker tendrils of rust-gold hair stuck to his forehead. He looks up at Patroclus and his gaze lingers instead of ripping away; Patroclus holds his attention, approaching with slow, careful steps, like a dog on a scent. 

“Are you ready to come home?” Patroclus asks him when he’s close enough to touch.

“Yes,” Achilles whispers.

They don’t talk for a while. Achilles guts his fish and Patroclus rubs it with oil and salt, things he’s kept in this glade for years with no purpose, collected on the strange occasions that he would find himself up and roaming and desperate for some connection to mortal life, something to taste or touch. Charon must have taken pity on the strange, wild man with the long hair, letting him rummage through the detritus on his boat, leftovers from the lives of others. Salt and oil, to remind him of his campside days; a corroded bronze bit, once, unattached to a bridle; later, some of the blood and water that the prince finds so useful.

He drives a thin skewer through the fish and turns it over the fire, the skin popping and blackening. It doesn’t matter so much what it tastes like, or whether they’ll even eat it. This is something they’ve done together countless times. If the routine of cooking helps to keep Achilles in the present, like the fires and his whistling, then he’ll catch as many fish as it takes.

Achilles is lying on his back now, hands steepled over his chest.

“Patroclus,” he says, in a voice that sounds calm, unburdened.

“Mm?”

He sets the fish skewer down at an angle to keep it off the grass and rests on his knees next to Achilles, who reaches up to run his fingers along Patroclus’s bare arm. There’s something familiar about the way he’s staring at him, the meaning of the little curve at one edge of his mouth; Patroclus keeps himself still in case it no longer means what it used to so many years ago, but his old, tired blood is already stirring from the memory alone.

Achilles’s fingers skim past his bicep and up to his face. He brushes Patroclus’s lower lip with his thumb.

“Do you still want me?”

Everywhere Achilles touches, he leaves Patroclus’s skin burning with something like bliss. After so many years alone, untouched by anything but the breeze, he can feel his nerves reawakening in the path of his fingers, turning toward the sun, his own golden god.

“If my answer to that ever becomes less than what it always has been,” Patroclus murmurs into Achilles’s thumb, “then the gods can have me.”

Achilles pulls him down then and crushes him with his mouth, sweeping the dark, coiled hair out of his face and behind Patroclus’s neck, his kisses wide and tongue-heavy, none of the gentleness from their last encounter. Before Patroclus can find something to hold onto, Achilles pins him between his knees and flips him over onto his back with a rough jostle like they’re sparring, grabs his chlamys and lifts him off the grass just to kiss him again, unrelenting. This feels like Achilles in his prime, after a fight, with something to prove. It brings Patroclus back to a place in his mind that he hasn’t seen since before the fall – the way they had dealt with each other instead of talking, sometimes, a path that led even deeper. He breaks off the kiss, takes Achilles’s face in his hands and holds him far enough back that he can see his eyes.

“Ask,” Patroclus tells him in his lowest voice.

It works. The great warrior’s shoulders sink, and he lets out an immediate breath as though Patroclus had just ripped him free from his armor. His eyes close and he swallows. Patroclus’s chlamys falls free from his open hands.

“May I?” Almost under his breath, a sigh.

“Take these off,” and Achilles’s hands are working furiously as soon as the words leave his mouth, stripping his cuirass, pulling at his robe until Patroclus is uncovered, warmth on his skin from the glow of the fire. “Let me see you,” and Achilles obeys with a shudder in his jaw, their armor thrown together on the grass, twinned again. How could he not want this man in front of him, gleaming and gold and bare with his hair like the sun, waiting on his command with the trust that they still share? If only it had been this easy at Troy. If only it had been this easy to make him come back –

“Patroclus –“ his throat working “–please let me inside.”

His Achilles takes – he doesn’t ask, he doesn’t beg, not for anyone except him. For anyone except Patroclus. And he still remembers.

“Ask me again.” Just to hear the sound of it, to see the way he restrains himself out of love.

Achilles lowers his head, almost bowing. “Can I have you?”

“Slowly,” Patroclus permits him. “Touch me first.”

There’s a tremble that runs through Achilles’s entire body, and Patroclus can feel the thrill of it, waiting for him. He reaches for the oil – out of all the connections to his mortal days, he had not thought of this – and Achilles works it over his fingers, surprises him by running them in gleaming streaks over Patroclus’s chest, caught in the bristles of his hair, down to his full, waiting cock, and Patroclus inhales from the bliss of that touch. Achilles is watching his reaction with his own breath stilled, not wanting to miss a sound. His hand is working slow, just like Patroclus had told him, tension and restraint tightening the muscles in his arm, a circle-grip up from the base to clench at the head of his cock, jagged, hot bursts of pleasure deep in his belly until he can’t drag this out anymore -

“Inside,” Patroclus orders him, and Achilles responds with a closed-off moan of wordless assent, opening him, slick and warm – of all the ways they’d taken each other, he still prefers this, face to face and primal – deeper, further, seeking his pleasure. Patroclus’s thighs are already starting to tense and shake, his breath stuttering from the sensation of being full again, full of Achilles, and when his fingers slip out and he pushes his cock inside, Patroclus loses himself to the moment, pulling Achilles closer until he can feel his sweat and his golden hair against his chest.

“Like this?” Achilles is asking softly, all the way in. Patroclus can’t answer from the intensity of it – like fire, like lightning, like being alive again. “Good?” and he pushes back into Achilles’s hips, feeling whole for the first time in however long it’s been -

In a daze, Achilles gathers a length of coiled, dark hair in his hand. He thumbs over it for a moment, then pulls sharply, a burst of pain over his scalp sending Patroclus abruptly out of the moment, curling up on reflex - 

“Achilles,” he hisses, grabbing at his wrist. “Let go.”

He hates this, and Achilles has known that he hates it since they were both boys discovering each other in secret on Pelion, experimenting with different places, different sensations. Achilles had knotted his fingers and pulled once while Patroclus was bent over him and it had made him cry, remembering his father’s temper – the apologies, the twisted look of guilt on Achilles’s boyish face, holding him awkwardly with his chiton still half-off and twigs in his golden hair – it was the first time Patroclus had shown that kind of emotion in front of him and there is no way that Achilles would make this mistake in his right mind. Not in his right mind.

“Let me make it up to you,” the warrior is telling him now, the rasp gone out of his low voice, leaving it smooth and sweet as honey. “I’ll make you feel better,” a hint of desperation, and Achilles leans forward to press his hot mouth against Patroclus’s cheekbone, dragging down to part his lips with an insistent, apologetic tongue, and it’s so hard to stay frustrated when he’s like this, when it’s been so long, so long. Patroclus lets him in, lets go of his wrist and pulls him closer instead, palm sliding down the hard plane of his sweat-covered back and then back up, aimless, distracted.

Achilles is pushing Patroclus’s knees back until they’re nearly flush with his chest, rolling his hips to move inside slower, deeper, half-lidded blue eyes searching his face, hungry to see him react.

“Better? Is that better?” he asks, voice almost cracking, and Patroclus can feel his breath escaping with every slow thrust but he puts his throat into it this time, letting himself moan so he can enjoy the immediate, drug-like satisfaction on Achilles’s face at the sound of it. “More?” - like they’re boys again, unsure of themselves, except Patroclus knows exactly what he wants now and it’s here on top of him, incandescent with sweat and glowing like the god he is.

“More,” Patroclus echoes, digging his nails into him, like spurring a warhorse. “Everything,” and Achilles makes a strangled noise, drops his head and the next thrust hits something that makes him cry out with no artifice this time – this god on his command, worshipping his own supplicant, proving that he still remembers Patroclus’s body and how to bring him as close to the divine as he’s ever felt –

Achilles has Patroclus’s legs pinned back now under his own broad chest, both hands clenched in the grass on either side of him, fucking him furiously with his gaze locked onto every movement of Patroclus’s face, every sound he makes, every wince and cut-off breath and rough, ragged moan. Always focused on his pleasure, to make up for some imbalance he’s felt since they were young – and he loves him for it – the ache deep inside is splintering, shattering with every smooth drive from Achilles’s cock, and he can’t hide the way this feels, can’t keep his mask up like this. Patroclus pulls Achilles’s face down and kisses him, too breathless to keep his mouth closed, just a quick, lascivious exchange of tongues, and something snaps off behind the warrior’s blue eyes, a look that he recognizes with a hot rush of anticipation.

“Not yet,” he tells Achilles through gritted teeth, and Achilles clenches his eyes shut and whimpers, a private sound that’s only for him – that no one else could ever hear – “Not before me.”

On command, the good soldier Achilles straightens, letting Patroclus’s legs relax and slowing his pace, one hand curling over his thigh and the other up at his mouth, wetting his palm and bringing it to Patroclus, stroking his cock, building him up, those devoted eyes never leaving his face. He could do it himself but he doesn’t want to let go, wants his grip tight on Achilles when he comes, as if he could bind him with it somehow and keep him from leaving – his stomach clenching, fire starting to spread –

“Is it good?” Achilles asks, shaky-voiced and needy, buried inside him, and Patroclus has to catch his hand and move it away at the last second – “Now,” he breathes, and the speed with which Achilles lets go of his restraint is inhuman, driving into him hard enough to break stone, a moan on the edge of every breath – Patroclus can feel his back lifting off the ground in ecstasy as his release floods over him, and he forgets his mask, lets himself cry out from pleasure, rolling his neck and arching, knowing that he’s bringing Achilles with him – Achilles stiffening, his muscles locking up now, running his hand half-crazed over Patroclus’s face, almost clawing at him. He loves this part, the way Achilles desperately searches for something to hold before he can come, the sweetness of his strength. Kissing at Achilles’s fingers, he lets the warrior’s thumb hook over his teeth and pull his mouth open, feeling the hot pulse of his climax, the stutter of his strong hips, letting the sensation of it linger inside like an embrace.

It’s over too soon. Two soldiers collapsed by the fire, breathing hard, spent and wet, armor on the grass as if there were battles to fight anymore, their little fish forgotten. Patroclus doesn’t want to ask for anything else. This is enough, this moment, even if another like it doesn’t come again for years. Achilles’s sweat-slick arm slides under his neck and hooks around him, and he leans his head into Achilles’s chest, warm enough despite the breeze playing over his wet skin, the come still fresh on his stomach and inside him but it can wait for another moment.

“Lyrnessus,” he says out loud, laughing deep in his chest. “Just like landing at Lyrnessus.”

They had been cooped up below deck for so long that the two of them disappeared together instead of helping set up the tents, making love on the dry beachgrass, barely able to see their bodies in the darkness. Nestor had gone after them with a torch and found them draped over each other; all throughout his overbearing lecture on the long walk back to camp, both of them half-naked and filthy, they had been stifling their laughter, exchanging glances like they used to when Chiron wasn’t paying attention. It was one of the last moments of happiness he can remember before the fighting started in earnest, before all of those comforts were stripped away.

“Lyrnessus?” Achilles asks.

“You remember the beach,” he prompts, still smiling. “Nestor. The look on his face.”

Achilles says nothing in response, staring up at the green mist-sky. That same thread of worry pulls itself loose from the back of his mind. His hair, and now Lyrnessus. It’s been so long, and Patroclus has had nothing else to do besides think of these things, over and over again until the memories have gone on longer than the actual events, until he’s sucked the last of the emotion from them. But Achilles had a contract – had responsibilities, a boy to train, a house to guard. It’s okay. It’s enough. It’s enough to have him here, right now.

“I love you, Patroclus,” Achilles says after a moment, almost like an apology. 

It’s enough. When the spell breaks later and Achilles comes to his feet, stumbling into his clothes, covering his face and blindly splashing across the Lethe, Patroclus lets him go. Every time he comes back, he comes closer – inch by inch, minute by minute. Whether he’s forgetful or enraged, tender or choking back tears, hanging on his every word or closed off in his own mind, he is still there beneath the surface, still the boy that Patroclus made a promise to - still the man that Patroclus swore his life to - and he can tell himself that even these absences are sweeter for the new memories they leave behind.

Patroclus waits until the fire burns out, the last embers clinging to the wood, before he leaves.

* * *

The house is empty when Zagreus resurfaces, stretching his arms behind his back and exhaling. It wasn’t so long ago that washing up here filled him with enough aimless frustration to make his feet burn hotter. With his mother’s face vivid in his mind and Achilles all the way in Elysium, this hallway means next to nothing anymore, not without Hypnos or his father or even the dog. It’s just another room to walk through.

Out of habit, he glances at the west hall before he can stop himself. Meg is standing guard in a rigid, straight-backed posture, whip tucked into her belt. When her eyes meet his, they immediately widen, then narrow into an expression pointed enough to break glass. Zagreus swallows.

“Meg, it’s, uh, good to see –“

“Cut the small talk,” she snaps. “You know why I’m here.”

“I don’t, actually,” he says, trying to project a casualness that he doesn’t feel at all.

Meg’s arms fold very slowly. Her jaw is tight when she finds her voice again. “I’ve been reassigned. The house needs a guard. And because of my –“ a twitch in her lips “- repeated and inexcusable failure to prevent you from eloping, the job has fallen to me.”

“Oh.”

Another casualty of his decision to end Achilles’s contract. Zagreus is struggling to think of a single good thing that has come of it, beyond that one moment on the bridge when everything had seemed perfect, when Achilles had let go of his hand and Patroclus had called his name. What’s left after that? The sadness in Patroclus’s eyes at learning that Achilles hadn’t come back for him, the way Achilles had broken down and cried in front of the temple, and now Meg, forced to stand here and parade her failure in front of everyone – her failure to stop Zagreus from escaping so he can rip even more lives apart in the guise of helping them. 

“I’m sorry, Meg,” he offers, almost too softly to make it past his throat. “I wish …”

“I’m sure you do.” She fixes her gaze past him and on the procession of shades slouching toward his father’s empty desk, her eyes smoldering with obvious frustration. “I’m on duty.”

There’s nothing else he can say. Defeat in his posture, he lopes away to the privacy of his room so she doesn’t have to look at him anymore. Someone has come in and cleaned his plates away and folded his clothes – Nyx, probably – adding yet another weight of shame to the load he’s carrying. He hasn’t even been able to thank her properly for everything she’s done.

Zagreus exhales through pursed lips. No use dwelling on it. Patroclus asked him for a favor and that’s something he can do, at least, that isn’t his idea, that might actually help someone. He picks up the history book, wraps it in one of his old chitons hanging on the back of his chair and ties it around his back like a satchel – tucking it under his belt won’t work, and he can’t fight his way to Elysium one-handed.

It’s easy to forget the small weight bumping against him as he runs. Sidestepping these wretches comes as second nature now, just as Achilles said it would; Aegis’s rebound and his own footwork keep him from having to think, at least while he’s moving and they’re moving. He doesn’t spare a single word for Alecto, works the hydra through without breaking a sweat, and if any of the gods have an opinion on his personal relationships at this point in time, they aren’t being forthcoming about it.

He finds Patroclus whistling to himself in the glade, a chunk of wood in his hand, peeling it like a potato with a tiny, curved knife.

“Are you trying to make something?” he asks politely, and Patroclus looks up with an easy smile at the sound of his voice. They’ve gone from ‘stranger’ to ‘prince’ to smiling at each other in the span of a week, all because of Achilles, who has never actually been present for one of these conversations. _There, that’s something good that’s come from nullifying the contract. Patroclus is talking to me now._

“I thought I’d try my hand at this again, just to pass the time, but …” Patroclus turns it around so Zagreus can see it. The little block of wood is roughly oval-shaped with two points on the bottom and a lump on the top.

“Is it a …” Zagreus hesitates, extending the syllable.

“Horse.” Patroclus sighs. “Or it will be, if I haven’t lost my touch.”

“Is Achilles –“

“Wandering.”

The tone of his voice answers the rest of Zagreus’s questions on that subject. Loosening the satchel from his back, Zagreus retrieves the book, carrying it over to the stone circle where Patroclus spends so much of his time. He sits down next to him at a polite distance.

“What have you brought me?”

He opens it to the chapter marked ‘Achilles’, spreads the book out on his knees, and Patroclus sets his wooden horse and knife down to lean closer. A ripple of tension moves through his face.

“Achilles was trying to teach me about history,” Zagreus explains, “and I think he … meant to show this to me one day, but we never got around to it. He left notes on some of the pages, and I thought … I think this might answer some of your questions.”

It feels strange to look at this again, remembering how he had felt when he read these notes the first time and what had happened afterward. _Even heroes make mistakes._ How much of this is Achilles still struggling with? They had never been able to talk about it, and Zagreus still hasn’t read past the part where he sails to Troy. Outside of the memories he found himself trapped inside, there are so many things he doesn’t know. Patroclus was there for most of it. Is he going to have to read about himself dying? The thought of it makes him cringe, but it’s too late – Patroclus is already flipping through the pages in Zagreus’s lap.

“ ‘ Tried to prove myself, sometimes did not listen.’” Patroclus reads from Achilles’s scribbled notes with a chuckle. “That’s an understatement.”

Zagreus doesn’t want to interrupt him. He sits back and watches the Myrmidon’s eyes travel over these paragraphs, trying to guess which ones he’s paying the most attention to, and after a moment Patroclus catches himself, leans back and meets Zagreus’s gaze.

“How rude of me. I apologize. Would you like to read it with me?”

“Oh. I mean, it’s mostly for you, but …”

Patroclus tugs the book slightly over until it rests on both of their legs, and Zagreus flips forward until he finds the page where the Myrmidons had begun their journey toward Troy. ‘ _No excuses – no fear – be open – “_ was the last thing Achilles had written here. Patroclus’s finger traces gently over the scrawled words as if he were touching Achilles himself, a gesture that makes Zagreus’s heart ache for him.

“Here we are,” Patroclus murmurs, his hand moving down the page. “How strange to see it all written like this.”

Flipping forward, and Zagreus’s eyes seem to catch on every mention of the names Achilles and Patroclus – it is strange to read about them, so formally described as if they aren’t people he knows, people he cares about. Achilles had a disagreement with someone named -

“Agama – Agamemo -“ Zagreus is trying and failing to pronounce it. He points to the name, and Patroclus corrects him.

“Agamemnon was our commander,” Patroclus explains. “He thought he could take one of Achilles’s captives to replace his own. It’s … a little more complicated than this is making it seem, but not by much.”

“Captives?” Zagreus asks, and he can see Patroclus’s face become very still, his eyes no longer moving over the page. Patroclus opens his mouth and then closes it without saying anything. He looks at the page himself, but it doesn’t explain anything, except here it calls her a captured slave, Achilles’s concubine, and that can’t be right.

“Did they get it wrong?” he tries. “Achilles wrote that some of the other things were wrong.”

But Patroclus is still quiet. Zagreus can feel his mouth going dry, a horrible quaking sensation in his stomach. Slaves – no, he wouldn’t have mistreated anyone. The prostitute in the tent – Troilus, the horse boy - there must have been a reason for all of it or he wouldn’t have done it. They wouldn’t have called him a hero if he had –

“What is this?” Achilles’s voice. “What are you doing?”

Zagreus looks up to see Achilles standing across from them with his hands curled into fists, an expression he’s never seen marring his face. His eyes are wide and his mouth is pressed tight in anger – it’s anger. Anger because he doesn’t want them reading this because he never wanted Zagreus to know about this and of course he doesn’t want Patroclus to see it before he has a chance to tell him himself and why did he think the book was a good idea -

“Achilles –“ he starts, the blood draining from his face, and the warrior cuts him off.

“You had absolutely no right,” Achilles grits out through his teeth. His voice is shaking with restrained emotion.

Zagreus is about to stand up, to apologize, to try to explain, but Patroclus puts a solid hand on his knee and holds him down.

“I asked the prince,” he says, calm and measured, “to help me understand what had happened after your death. I can’t help you fight what I can’t see.”

“No. This is over.” The warrior’s eyes are focused on Patroclus, but they’re blank. “Bring it to me.”

“You’d like to tell me yourself, then? Shall we sit down and –“

“In my own time!” Achilles snaps. The sudden volume of it cracks against Zagreus like a whip. He can feel himself leaning backwards on his hands in fear, his breath coming out short and fast. When Achilles fixes his glare on Zagreus, he inhales sharply, freezing in place with his arms bent behind him. 

“The book,” Achilles orders. “Bring it to me, lad.”

Their familiar word sounds like a curse in this tone. Zagreus’s mind is completely scattered in panic. He can’t make his hands move, can’t get his throat to work – it feels like he’s stuck in a nightmare again, paralyzed and facing down an Achilles he doesn’t recognize.

The history book slips away from his knees. Patroclus stands, holding it out in front of him. His voice is gentle but deliberate.

“Take it, then, and run further from me. But know that I’ll find you, and that you are already forgiven.”

With a fury that sends Zagreus’s heart into his throat, Achilles snatches the book from Patroclus’s hand and rips it in half at the spine. He throws one half into the river without even looking. From the other half, he methodically rips the pages and crumples them in his hand, his face twisted like a monster’s, like he’s possessed.

Then Patroclus is kneeling front of Zagreus, blocking his view, making him blink. He lifts Zagreus’s chin up until their eyes meet.

“This is not your fault,” he murmurs. “Can you say that back to me, Zagreus? Say ‘this is not my fault.’”

His throat is swollen and sore from fear. He opens his mouth and tries to make a sound but nothing comes out.

“Leave him out of this.” An order, clipped and brusque.

“He’s here. He’s been here.” Patroclus is quiet. His face wears the same mask, betraying nothing. Zagreus tries to focus on him instead of the blurred figure behind him, focus on his calm, on his soft voice instead of the spiraling terror shutting him down. “We’re both here, trying to help you.”

“What have I asked of you? I asked for _time_ ,” Achilles snarls, “and you’ve betrayed me? Both of you!”

“You’re suffering _now_. And we are suffering with you.”

Patroclus reaches for Zagreus’s shoulders and grips them tight, pinning him down. His dark eyes are fixed on Zagreus, holding his attention, distracting him, and Zagreus knows that’s what he’s trying to do but it can’t block out the sound of Achilles’s voice accusing him, blaming him, shouting, ripping the book, something they shared –

“Come to me now, or leave, and I’ll find you, Achilles Pelides, but you will not stand here and frighten the prince any longer.”

Achilles makes a sound almost like a cough. Silence, then, for a long moment. Patroclus is stroking Zagreus’s shoulders now in a slow, steady pattern.

“Zagreus,” he rasps, finally. The anger has drained out of his voice, leaving it cracked and raw. “Have I … frightened you?”

“I’m sorry,” Zagreus blurts out before Patroclus can tell him not to. “I thought – I’m so sorry.”

Then Patroclus is helping him stand, holding him beneath the shoulders and supporting him until his legs straighten. He can see Achilles now, still holding the tattered book, his face almost disfigured by emotion. His eyes lock onto Zagreus’s as if searching for the answer to his question, and he makes another sound, almost animal-like, from the back of his throat.

“We will speak of this later,” Patroclus murmurs to the man behind him, still focused on Zagreus, “when you return to me, Achilles.”

Achilles drops the book. He turns around with a hand covering his face, just as he had done before at the temple, like he could hide himself that way, and walks over the river, following his own footsteps until Zagreus can’t see him anymore.

Patroclus’s brows furrow in concern, the first trace of emotion he’s shown during this entire conversation. He lets go of Zagreus’s shoulders and tilts his head at him in that way he does, inspecting him. His father’s anger has never affected him like this - not Meg’s brusque taunts or Than’s silences. Zagreus is trying to come back to himself, gather his thoughts, but his mind feels like a wasteland after a storm, debris scattered everywhere, tripping over things. He can’t even remember why he came here in the first place.

“I once again find myself apologizing for his temper,” Patroclus says quietly. “This was not a reflection on you. It was a reflection on how unwell he is. Can you accept that?”

When Zagreus doesn’t answer, he leaves him for a moment, coming back with the same silver mug that heals his wounds. He lifts Zagreus’s hands and folds his fingers around the handle just as he had the last time they’d done this, but this time Patroclus helps him bring the mug to his mouth and watches him drink, those brown eyes intent on his face, full of kindness, and Zagreus chokes on the water with a sudden half-sob, spluttering, dripping all over himself. He wipes his chin and takes a deep breath.

“I just wanted to help – “ and his throat closes up again, eyes stinging. Patroclus holds the mug steady at a distance, waiting for him to breathe.

“You did. You have. But it’s not your responsibility alone. Drink, prince.”

Zagreus forces the rest of the water down until Patroclus is satisfied. It rushes into his blood with a dull warmth, throbbing under his skin, and after a moment he can feel his head start to clear, the open wound of Achilles’s rage knitting itself into a bruise, no longer bleeding.

“I thought he knew,” Zagreus mumbles. “I told him I’d read it – some of it. I thought he wanted…”

“Achilles’s memory is … not what it once was.”

“He never talked about any of it.” The remnants of the drink are salty in his mouth, and he licks at his teeth, deep in thought. “I saw some of his memories when he was dreaming, but …”

“It’s all right.” Patroclus is looking to the side, holding the empty mug. “It’ll be all right.” It almost sounds like he’s talking to himself.

“Are you going to go after him?” Zagreus asks quietly.

“Not yet,” he murmurs.

“Want me to start another fire?”

“You’ve done enough for now. I’ll … take care of things here.”

Patroclus retrieves the mutilated book from the ground, holding it blankly for a moment as if deciding what to do with it, and Zagreus can’t watch this anymore. Slipping Aegis over his arm, he leaves Patroclus behind in his grove, picking up the crumpled, wet pages and straightening them, holding them up to the light to see if they’re still legible, maybe, and it hurts so badly that he just lets Aegis drop and leans against the closed door until the second spear guts him, laying in the Styx with the water in his ears, not even bothering to get up.

* * *

There’s a light in his temple. The crumbling marble wall is rose-colored, staining the white columns pink with an unnatural intensity.

Achilles approaches it with his heart in his throat and his body aching, nauseous from emotion. He drops to his knees. His head touches the cracked marble floor.

“Aphrodite,” he starts, voice thin and strained from wordless screaming. “I don’t know if you can hear me, but I … I forgive you. And I hope you can forgive me.”

A small rush of air, the tickle of wings over his skin. The smell of hyacinths.

“Achilles.” The sound of it like bells ringing. “What am I supposed to do with you?”

“Do with me what you will, my goddess, only – “

“Only what?” She snorts. “I gave you a gift and you’ve thrown it away. Do you realize how fortunate you are that I’ve deigned to make myself present to you after such an insult? To say nothing of the war. Such a silly thing.”

Soft hands on the back of his head, fingers curling through his sweaty hair.

“But yes, Achilles, I’ve forgiven you. It means much that you’ve finally come to me on your knees with the respect that I’m owed. Really, it’s the only reason I bothered.”

Stroking him behind the ears like a kitten.

“What would you like from me, love?” Her voice is gentle, soothing. “Would you have them bound to you? Forgiving your every repeated, foolish mistake? Bound to each other, perhaps, to spare them from suffering in your presence?”

“No,” Achilles whispers. “I only … want them safe. From me. But don’t change them. Please.”

“It’s too bad that they can’t see things as clearly as you do,” Aphrodite hums, petting him. “To be loved by you is a horrible thing. And you’ve done that all on your own. I had no part in it! I only tried to help.”

“What can I do? How can I …” Achilles swallows. “How can I fix this?”

Aphrodite cups his face and lifts him with unnatural strength, her grip light as a feather, holding him limp in the air with her slender hands around his jaw like a doll.

“Honestly, love,” she says, sighing operatically, “I don’t think you can. And I don’t think I want to help you after all. Not one but two lovers, more than anyone could ask for, and still you’ve managed to ruin it.”

Lifting him higher.

“Did you know, Achilles, that despite everything you did, Hector and Andromache are together again? They’re so happy. You could have learned a lot from Hector if you hadn’t been so pigheaded.”

Achilles says nothing.

“So, here’s my advice for you,” Aphrodite trills. “Why don’t you stop living in the past? What’s left there for you? Just leave it behind and clean up your own mess in the present.”

She puts him back down and dusts off her hands with an ostentatious gesture. Achilles returns to his position of supplication, thinking nothing, feeling nothing.

“On the surface, they’re forgetting about you, anyway. They talk so much more about your friend Odysseus. Remember him? _He_ didn’t let anything stop him from coming home to _his_ love. I enjoyed that reunion very much. Yours was so dull. I don’t know why I expected more.”

Aphrodite is fading into the pink light, her body becoming translucent. Achilles stays on his knees after she’s gone. He listens to his heartbeat, the sound of his breath, the steady current of the river. Aphrodite’s voice in his head. _Stop living in the past. What’s left there for you?_

_You’re suffering now. And we are suffering with you._

_Achilles, please say something._

_Achilles Pelides. Turn away from it and come to me._

* * *

Zagreus is expecting to see Patroclus in his familiar circle, whistling a tune and looking up at him with a smile, but the glade is empty. Maybe he went to gather some more wood; this fire looks like it’s been out for a while, the charred, black logs ready to crumble.

Keeping his anxiety in check, he wanders past the shallow part of the river and down the hill in a path that’s becoming pretty familiar now, the olive trees filtering the greenish-white light through their leaves in strange patterns on the dirt. It really does feel like paradise here, at least when nobody’s fighting him; it’s almost as beautiful as the surface, but without the snow and the eye-searing sun. Zagreus is imagining what would happen if he snipped some of his mother’s plants and tried to grow them here. Would they take? It might be fun to start a garden with Patroclus’s help, and maybe Achilles when he starts feeling better.

Around the corner, a glimpse of golden hair and green linen. His feet find themselves frozen underneath him. He has an apology prepared, and it sounded sincere when he practiced it in front of the mirror ( _I’m sorry for breaching your privacy, I know that you wanted to wait to tell Patroclus and it must have made you feel very upset when I brought him your book_ ). At the sight of him, all those words seem to sweep out of his head along with the wind.

He must have done a thousand things over the years to make Achilles upset – blowing off practice, forgetting his lessons, not paying attention – but never once did Achilles raise his voice or blame him, even when he probably should have. ‘I’m not your father,’ he would tell Zagreus apologetically. ‘I won’t punish you.’ The one time he thought he had pushed too hard, when Achilles was still trapped inside his nightmare and he shouted at Zagreus to stop asking questions – it hadn’t felt anything like what happened last time. But he can’t stay afraid. Achilles will listen. He’ll understand, he always does.

Zagreus steps carefully over the tangled tree roots toward his mentor.

“Hi, Achilles, sir,” he starts, impressed at how confidently he was able to say that despite the knot of anxiety in his throat. Rolling with it, getting the hard part out first: “I was … hoping to apologize for what happened.”

Achilles turns around, and he’s smiling. Zagreus blinks. It’s a genuine smile, crinkling his eyes, full of warmth.

“You look well, Zagreus,” he says. “How is your mother?”

Completely thrown, Zagreus’s mouth opens and closes like a fish, searching frantically for something else to say besides the apology he was about to launch into. “Well, she’s – ah – I – I haven’t actually seen her again since the last time we talked, but … I hope she’s … I mean, she seems happy? To be there. How – how are you?”

This actually gets a chuckle from Achilles. The sound of it blooms in his chest. Like old times – like before all of this happened, Achilles listening to him ramble, telling him to keep going, a hand on his shoulder and a ‘there’s a good lad’. He can feel the corners of his mouth turning up a little.

“I think I’m finally getting used to Elysium,” Achilles tells him, running his fingers through his hair in a relaxed gesture. “It’s been quite an adjustment, but … with the two of you on my side, I’m sure it will feel like home soon.”

He can’t keep the smile from his face, his heart surging with happiness. “I – that’s amazing, sir. If there’s ever anything I can do to help, please. I’ve wanted to hear this for so long.”

It just feels so good. He can’t help it. Zagreus reaches out to touch Achilles’s face, stepping forward, looking up at him with his eyes wide. He stands on his toes and presses his lips to Achilles’s, just a gentle kiss, not wanting anything else.

Achilles’s hand fixes lightly on his wrist. The warrior steps back, breaking the kiss, brows furrowed.

“What is this, lad?”

Zagreus licks his lips, suddenly, painfully embarrassed. He takes his hand back and lets it hang awkwardly by his side.

“Oh, I – I just … I’m … happy for you.”

Achilles is shaking his head a little, a concerned expression settling over his features.

“Zagreus, I’m flattered, but as I’ve told you, my heart belongs to Patroclus.”

It’s not concern on his face. It’s pity. He’s seen that look before. The world is shifting beneath Zagreus’s feet, his head spinning, and he has to dig his toes into the dirt to keep from falling.

“What about Pelion?” he asks before he can stop himself, not wanting to hear the answer, knowing what’s coming.

Achilles’s brows knit even deeper. He folds his arms.

“Pelion? That’s …. you know, I suppose you’re right. That is where I first realized I loved him. Although I’m not sure how you’ve come to hear of it.”

Zagreus blinks, and two hot tracks of tears run down to his chin. He has to fold a hand over his trembling mouth to keep it from being obvious, but Achilles steps toward him and squeezes his shoulder, familiar, friendly. It feels like a stab wound.

“I’m surprised to see this reaction from you, lad. You know I’m very fond of you.” Achilles is acting like the same supportive mentor he always was, like old times, the same thing he was so happy to see just moments ago. “I would have thought that you understood about Patroclus and I when you ended my contract, but I’m very sorry if I’ve misjudged your feelings.”

“Do you remember anything?” Zagreus bursts out, his voice loud, shaking. “When you saw me in my room? Helping me escape?” He’s shouting now. “The punishment? Any of it? Do you remember?”

Achilles’s eyes widen for a moment before returning to that same, horrible, pitying expression that Zagreus never wants to see again, that rips his heart open and clenches his throat shut.

“I’m sorry,” is all he can say, shaking his head.

Zagreus’s face crumples. Both hands come up to cover his mouth and he sobs, trying to breathe in but he can’t, tears running over his fingers. Achilles pulls him closer for a reassuring embrace, patting him gently on the shoulder, but Zagreus tears himself away, walking backwards, Achilles blurring and shifting in his vision.

“You drank from the river,” he tries to say, and it comes out as a sob. “You drank from the Lethe,” and he can’t look at Achilles anymore, not when he’s looking back at him with pity and nothing else. Not when he’s forgotten that he loves Zagreus – that he gave him as much as he could, even knowing that it wasn’t all of him, that the rest was for Patroclus – that he held his hand and kissed it, said he’d be there and he wouldn’t leave Zagreus behind –

He stumbles over the river, soaking his legs, walking blind, and when Patroclus finds him he’s crying too hard to explain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> coming soon: Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Myrmidon!!!!!11111


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this seemed like a natural stopping point or else this chapter was going to be waaaaaaaay too long
> 
> also I have poorly attempted to describe a fireman's carry so here is a pic for reference: [it looks like this](https://content.artofmanliness.com/uploads//2011/03/firemancarry.jpg)
> 
> **!MAJOR CW!: suicidal ideation, drowning, (temporary!) character death, grieving**

There’s no light in the temple anymore. Every seam, every crack in the wall looks wider, as if some force of nature had begun to prise the stones apart. In the center of the floor where Aphrodite stood is a rose petal. They had talked about something, and she had lifted him up by the neck; Achilles can remember the way her touch felt, but none of the words she said.

Achilles bends down to pick up the petal. Little red veins cut through the pink and fade into whiteness at the bottom. He cradles it in his palm, staring at it, trying to goad his mind into recalling what had happened here - she must have done something or Zagreus wouldn't have reacted so strongly. Had she charmed him somehow? Zagreus had mentioned a punishment. His father, maybe. He had looked so distraught. Achilles could find him, reach out to him, if he could only make these thoughts fit together, put them in order instead of the way they're floating, now, like loose leaves blown from a tree.

"What do you have there?" Patroclus’s soft voice from behind him.

Achilles turns to show him the petal in his hand, but Patroclus glances away from it to study his face instead, looking for something in Achilles’s expression that he can only guess at. He lowers his hand, closes his fingers protectively around the tiny petal, his only clue.

"Aphrodite left this for me," he explains. "I’m trying to remember what we spoke of, but it eludes me."

"Did you show it to Zagreus just now?"

He shakes his head. It had happened before, not after. That much he knows. Talking to Aphrodite, whatever she had said, and then - a blank spot, like a torn page, and suddenly the prince standing before him in tears.

"You’ve seen him, then?" Achilles asks. "He was upset when he left. I'd like to help him, if I could."

Patroclus’s brows are curved low, etches of worry at the corners of his soft eyes. He speaks slowly.

"I don't think that would be the best idea." Coming closer, the worry-lines on his face even clearer now. "What do you think made Zagreus upset?"

"He seemed ... surprised at my commitment to you," Achilles recalls. The way Zagreus had drawn back and started to cry, then shouted at him, accusing him of - something, what was it - a punishment? That, and - "Pelion. He mentioned Pelion, as though ... it could have been jealousy. I had not realized he harbored such feelings for me, or I would have softened the blow, but I'm concerned by his reaction all the same."

Patroclus nods, taking this in. Achilles can feel a rush of gratitude at this simple acknowledgement. So many things are jumbled up in his mind, images and memories rearranging themselves, almost like clouds, constantly moving and changing shape, but Patroclus is constant. He has always seen clearly even when Achilles couldn't. Patroclus connects him to this place. Sometimes Achilles loses himself, but then the clouds pass and he knows that he belongs here, and his thoughts flow in a straight line and he can trace them back and forth - Zagreus was looking for his mother and his contract with the house has ended, so he's come here to Elysium to be with Patroclus again, and he likes it here. It's clear in his mind, bright as the sun: a simple, straight line.

"He expected to hear something different from you," Patroclus says in a gentle tone. "Do you know why that might be?"

"I have always been straightforward with him about where my heart belongs. I was certain he understood what it meant when he amended my contract - why else would I have asked, if not to return to you?"

An immediate change in Patroclus’s face. His eyes widen, losing their focus, and he shifts his weight from one foot to another to correct a sudden unsteadiness.

"Your contract." His voice wavers. "You said you asked Zagreus to change it?"

"Of course. Of course I did." Achilles can feel the certainty of it in his heart, beating there along with his love for Patroclus and all the other things he doesn't have to question, the wound his absence had left and its steady ache drumming beneath his chest for every minute he stood guard, the pain of losing him, all of it twisted together. These things are at the core of his being. They ground him when nothing else makes sense, when the clouds move in and he can't follow his thoughts, when his prince recoils from him and Patroclus is staring at him like a stranger. "I could not bear it one moment longer, a life apart from you."

Patroclus drops his gaze. His face flattens into an unfamiliar, neutral mask.

"Forgive my rudeness, Achilles Pelides," he says, and then he turns to leave, walking in a stiff path through the olive trees. 

How could Patroclus not know this? What other possible reason would have compelled him to leave the House? To hear this and then walk away as though he were in pain - as Zagreus had walked away, both of them, after searching his face, searching for something and being unable to find it -

"What have I done wrong?" Achilles calls, throat beginning to tighten, following after him with the temple at his back. "Patroclus? What am I doing wrong?"

Patroclus doesn't slow down. His chlamys snaps behind him in the wind, flaglike, some of his dark hair tangled around it.

"I would be alone," he says without turning.

"Please wait." He can almost reach for him - two more steps and then Achilles wraps his arms around Patroclus’s chest, catching his chlamys and his beautiful thick hair, breathing in his scent, and Patroclus stiffens like a board beneath his grip.

"I’ve made you unhappy," Achilles rasps, a swell of desperate, nameless emotion flooding his lungs. He pulls tighter despite the resistance in Patroclus’s muscles, clasping his hands together over the front of his cuirass, still holding his rose petal. When Patroclus is here, he feels whole, connected, but without him he'll forget - the clouds will cover the sun and he'll lose himself - "What can I do? What can I do to fix it?"

A silence stretches out over the grove. Patroclus is still, rigid, hardly breathing.

"I told you that I would find you wherever you went," Patroclus says in a very quiet voice. "But you've gone even further from me, haven't you?"

"Patroclus, I’m right here." Muffled into his hair.

"I know," he continues, ignoring Achilles’s reply. "I’ve known since you could look me in the eye without seeing me dead on the shroud. It was the only way you could see me, as a corpse on the pyre, dragged back from the wall."

It's impossible. Patroclus could not possibly be mistaken about this. It was the sharpest pain of losing him - Achilles had not even had a chance to clean his wounds, to kiss his face one more time even in death. Antilochus had fallen on his knees and wailed at the loss of the body to Hector and the men who had died defending him. He can still hear the sound of it, remember his uncontrollable grief spilling out, the ashes in his mouth. If he had seen Patroclus’s corpse, he would never have forgotten it - could never -

"No, your body -" pleading with him now "- Patroclus - they never brought it back. We lost it. I never saw you again. Not in life."

Achilles can hear a sharp breath, feel a shiver run through the man beneath his arms. He's made it worse. He must be wrong, even though the memory is so vivid - he must be wrong, because Patroclus would know. Had he been wrong about Zagreus, too? What is he doing wrong? What is he missing?

"Give me a moment alone," Patroclus says, almost too softly to hear, "and I’ll try. I'll try to make this normal for us. In another hour, you'll forget what we spoke of, but I’ll remember. I'll try to make it normal, but I must be ... apart from you, first. Only for a moment, so that I can ... think. Alone."

He turns his head to the side, looking out over the olive grove, and Achilles can see tears running down to his jaw, catching in his beard, his eyes reddened and narrow.

"Can you do that? Can you wait for me?"

Will he forget this? What has he already forgotten? Achilles is searching for the last time he had seen Patroclus before now, and all he can see is Antilochus on his knees - no, here he is, in Elysium, and Patroclus is carrying him over his shoulder, his hair dripping - standing up in his glade and saying his name, calling him a fool. Whistling by the fire. Zagreus is there, smiling, touching his face - and there's a fire, huge, reaching up into the sky, the night sky, where is this? Dead sheep, dogs tied to the kindling, his own voice praying for the wind. Achilles can see it so clearly, can feel the heat of the flames against his skin, but then it's gone.

His arms are empty. Patroclus must have left him. He had asked to be alone. Something in his hand, a flower petal. Did Patroclus bring this for him? No, roses don't grow here. This is Elysium. He's seen that fire before. And he was thinking about Zagreus but he can't remember why - and they had both looked at him in the same way, wept and then left, as if he was the source of the pain. It was a pyre, but who was burning?

Achilles is struggling to breathe. The clouds have moved in again, the grass warping and shifting below him, his heart a constant hammer beneath his ribs. This flower petal meant something and he can't remember what. Patroclus said he would forget this, all of this. If he could forget what this feels like - the way they had looked at him - both of them gone, and what's left? What does that leave?

He stumbles toward the river, kneeling on the bank and cupping his hands, the rose petal floating away with the current. The water is salty in his mouth, like drinking tears. It travels down his throat and spreads over his skin, numbing him, slowing his pulse, and he breathes in as deep as he can. He can't hold enough of it in his hands. The water drips over his arms, onto his legs, soaking into the fabric of his robe. Achilles leans forward with his elbows on the mossy bank. The mist of the river brushes over his face, dampens his hair. His head plunges beneath the surface and he inhales the water, as thin as air, and it fills his lungs, numbing tendrils expanding through his body until he can't feel himself breathe anymore.

Salty, like the sea. Like his mother's sea. The nymphs had sung for his grief once. Achilles can remember that song, the way their cries had echoed, carrying his own. He would weep on the shore and his mother would emerge to comfort him with her cold arms around his neck. She had wept with him, too, regretting that he had been born for such sorrow, that she had brought him into the world. For another moment, Achilles can hear her voice, and then it flows from his mind into the current with her sisters' song, the sound of his own voice, the memory of the sea, and the water pulls his eyes shut and closes his ears, carrying him.

* * *

"I perceive your distress, son of Hades."

Zagreus is standing with his arms awkward at his side, craning his neck as far back as he can in an attempt to meet Chaos's gaze. After a moment, Chaos drifts downward until their faces are level with each other, Zagreus staring straight forward now and trying not to think about the claylike, malformed appendages that creep over the lower half of their body. He swallows down his nervousness before searching for his voice.

"Master Chaos, I ... appreciate you taking the time to speak with me."

Colors float alongside their impassive face in broad stripes, emanating like an aura, orange and pink and the same kind of purple that he's always associated with Nyx, which makes sense, he supposes. Chaos watches him for a moment, unblinking eyes intent. Zagreus has to wonder what a being like Chaos thinks about when they see him. They always seem to know what gods he's talked to last, or what he's been doing, somehow, and they've always been helpful, as strange as it seems to receive a handout from the primordial void.

"You seek my knowledge," Chaos informs him, their voices slightly out of sync, "but I cannot discern for what purpose."

"I was ..." Zagreus cuts off, blinking. He's too distracted; he'll have to script these words carefully if he's going to make any sense. A pause, gathering himself, and he tries again: "It's my understanding that ... this world was your creation, right? The underworld."

"Yes." Waiting for him to elaborate.

"Then the Lethe - the river Lethe that runs through Elysium, that was something you created?"

"Ask me your question directly, son of Hades," Chaos intones. "I do not require a repetition of my own deeds."

"Okay. I - my apologies." Zagreus lets out an uncomfortable breath. He should stop making this so complicated - they'll either know or they won't. "Can the memories lost from the Lethe be recovered? Is there - are they gone forever once someone drinks from it? Can you bring them back?"

A ripple runs across Chaos's torso, the grey flesh blurring and then rematerializing. Chaos tilts their head back in a gesture of thought, maybe, or maybe Zagreus is just grasping for anything that seems relatable.

"The intricacies of function do not concern me directly. My creations have a purpose that exists beyond me, much as my own child is a mystery, and the workings of her children the fates are a mystery to her. As such, it is beyond my knowledge where these mortal remnants are taken."

"I see," Zagreus mumbles. He can feel the disappointment curling in his chest, cold and heavy. He makes sure it doesn't reach his face - none of this is Chaos's problem. It was his own fault for thinking there might be an easy solution.

"My answer displeases you." Chaos is looking at him again, motes of light inside pupilless black eyes, and Zagreus meets their gaze so they can see that he's not ungrateful, assuming they can't already tell.

"I’m sorry if I’ve offended," Zagreus says to their blank, colorless face. "Thank you for listening, as always, Master Chaos."

He brushes past Chaos and toward the gate, positioned close enough to the abrupt edge of this tile floor that his feet stop on instinct before he's even registered the danger. What would happen if he let himself fall over the edge? Is there anything inside that void? There are so many things Zagreus doesn't know about this realm, his home, the gods, and he can't shake the feeling that if he had paid attention to his father when he was younger, some of this might make sense and he wouldn't be scrambling around helplessly searching for a way to fix the problems he's caused.

"Do not underestimate the strength of your own will, son of Hades."

The words, in their strange chorus, echo through his head as the gateway carries him further from chaos's voice, and he lands unsteadily on the hardened surface of Asphodel with disappointment still weighing him down like a rock. He can't talk to any of the gods about this. They don't have a clue what goes on down here, he reasons with himself, barely paying attention to the sHades flinging themselves in his path. Nyx might know something, he thinks over a backdrop of combat, letting Stygius carry him mindlessly through the point drills he's rehearsed with Achilles a thousand times, pushing closer to Elysium. But she's done enough. He knows his father takes his anger out on her - cutting through the hydra, humid sweat soaking his back, dripping down his arms - and he can't ask her to take on any more of the responsibility.

Zagreus wipes his forehead, lets the adrenaline fade a little before heading for the stairs. He and Patroclus can come up with something together, and even if they can't, he'd rather be in Patroclus’s company than anywhere else. He has this strange way of tricking Zagreus into feeling calm, almost without realizing it; was it a technique he'd learned to manage Achilles’s temper, or is it just his nature? The way he talks, that soft voice, pulling Zagreus back to his senses not by insulting him like his father or leaving in distaste like Nyx, but by making him sit down and encouraging him to cry until he was finished - Zagreus’s fist curls up on reflex, nails digging into his palm, trying not to think about how it had made him feel. He had told Patroclus about Achilles and the Lethe, and Patroclus hadn't even reacted, just sat there with him and - _stop it. Stop it._

Greenish light plays over the staircase, dappled by falling petals. He takes a deep breath, the crisp air of Elysium mingling with the residual heat behind him, soft breezes drying the sweat on his face. Patroclus will be there, and it'll start to make sense.

Zagreus descends down the last few steps, eyes adjusting to the pale light, and the first thing he notices is Patroclus standing in front of the entrance, looking at him expectantly like he's been waiting here for hours. Something's not right. His eyes are red and his hands are clutched together in front of his chest, a gesture that might as well be a scream coming from a man this composed.

"Zagreus," he rasps, sending an immediate jolt down his spine. "I need your help."

Zagreus stops. His fist uncurls, the emotion forgotten. A thousand half-realized scenarios play out all at once in the back of his mind.

"What is it?"

"I don’t know." Patroclus is shaking his head, unfocused, distraught. "I don’t know what it means."

At the bottom of the steps, white flowers burning beneath his feet, Zagreus is about to ask if it has something to do with Achilles when his eyes track over Patroclus’s shoulder and he can see the body behind him on the stone, golden hair wet and darkened. He sucks in a gasp. Patroclus takes hold of his arm and pulls him toward it. Zagreus’s steps falter, holding back in reflexive fear of the way Achilles is lying, as still as if he were dreaming again. He doesn't want to see this, but Patroclus won't let go.

"I can't feel his heart," Patroclus tells him, voice rough. "He’s not breathing, and he's so cold. Please tell me what it means."

Achilles is laid out in his robe, beads of water on his face, his chlamys soaked and his fingers folded up in a tight grip over nothing. Zagreus doesn't have to touch him to know that this isn't like before. There's no dream. There's no contract. If it was something they could fix, Patroclus wouldn't be here with his eyes red and his voice gone weak asking for help. And it doesn't matter - Chaos couldn't have changed this. Both of them were trying and they couldn't stop it.

_He wasn't ready. He wasn't ready and you forced him into this. He didn't have a choice._

"I found him in the river." Patroclus is kneeling at Achilles’s side now, stroking his wet hair. "I ... thought perhaps he might have fallen asleep, or lost his balance, but there's been no change, and ... are we not already dead?"

Zagreus can't answer. His mind has gone silent, filled with a suffocating, wordless tension, strangling his thoughts. He can feel his hand reach for his belt, and his grip settles on the little mouse stuffed inside a pouch. He strokes it with a thumb.

A hollow sound, and Thanatos steps forward from a curl of smoke, his green light barely perceptible here. He pauses, hovering, scythe raised above his head in preparation for an attack that isn't coming.

"Zagreus," he asks, holstering the scythe behind his back, "what's going on here?"

He had called for Thanatos on a sudden instinct - thought that Death could help, somehow, could look down and tell him that Achilles isn't dead, but of course he is, they're both dead, Achilles and Patroclus - it doesn't make sense, but it's too late to call him back. Zagreus can only stare at him, the words not coming, sticking useless in his throat.

Beside him, Patroclus rises to his feet. His voice is a low, threatening growl.

"Come to claim him, death?"

Thanatos glances wide-eyed from Patroclus to Zagreus, and then to Achilles, motionless on the ground. He opens his mouth. Before he can make a sound, Patroclus strides toward him and grabs his black chiton in a tight fist, physically pulling the god down to his level, close enough for their foreheads to touch.

"It took two gods and two men to lay me low," Patroclus snarls into Thanatos’s face, "and there's only one of you."

There's a tremble in Thanatos’s voice. "I don't even know who you _are_."

"You’ll find out who I am before you take Achilles."

Thanatos seeks out Zagreus’s gaze, obviously confused. This wasn't supposed to happen - not like this, not Patroclus too. His raw anger is burning through Zagreus like a scald. First Achilles had snapped, and then he'd forgotten him, and now he's lying here cold with Patroclus gone off in a rage. He had only come here because he needed Patroclus’s help - anyone's help - he can't do this alone. Everything in his mind is just slamming together, falling apart.

"I just came here because Zagreus asked," Thanatos says as slowly and clearly as he can. "I don't want to claim anyone. That's not ... even my job. I'm going to talk to Zagreus now. Please don't make me hurt you."

Patroclus gives him another moment before releasing his grip, taking his hand back slowly in a barely-concealed threat. His eyes remain fixed on Thanatos as he hovers toward Achilles and kneels, chiton spreading over the grass in a black halo.

"What happened here, Zag?"

"Is he dead?" Zagreus asks, hoarse, his mouth gone dry.

Thanatos takes a second to respond. "Yes," he starts, "obviously, but ..."

He rests his gauntlet on Achilles’s forehead, the gleam of the silver dulled by the thick mist, and closes his eyes to concentrate. Zagreus has to look away, look at anything else. It's hard not to notice the way Patroclus is standing with his shoulders squared, waiting like a dog on a leash. Of course he'd want to keep death away from Achilles. He should have thought of that. All of this, all of these threads coming together because of his bad decisions, his selfishness, his shortsightedness. It was Thanatos who'd told him that when he first left the house - that it wasn't just him swept up in all this anymore - and the more Zagreus keeps trying to fix it, the more it keeps coming apart at the seams, dragging everyone else down one by one. All he can do is sit with that realization and wait for death to tell him it's out of his hands, too.

"There’s nothing there," Thanatos murmurs. "There’s nothing ... inside."

He lifts his hand gently and rises, shaking his head. There's obvious sympathy in his golden eyes and he's not even trying to hide it like he usually would, no sarcasm or disapproval.

"I don't know. I can't ... feel him at all. I'm sorry, Zagreus." He glances at Patroclus, including him in the sentiment. "I just ... bring them here. The rest is up to your father."

Thanatos waits for a response, hovering between the two of them. When it's obvious no one has anything else to say, he gives Zagreus a half-smile that's almost unbearably sincere, crosses his arms and disappears, the smoke dissipating with the breeze, sending white petals swirling. Some of the petals have landed on Achilles, a dusting across his cheek, his cuirass, the dip of his robe between his motionless legs.

"Your father," Patroclus says quietly.

Zagreus’s tongue feels cracked, stuck to the roof of his mouth. He tries to work up some moisture. Is that what it's come down to? Baring himself and his failures in front of his harshest judge? It's only fair. He's already found out how far he'll go for the sake of Achilles. For the both of them - for Patroclus, who's been there despite everything, watching over him, carrying all of this pain by himself -

"I’ll try," Zagreus rasps. "I’ll talk to him."

"I wish that it had not come to this. I wish that I did not have to ask this of you, after everything you've done."

Patroclus meets his eyes. There's no anger there anymore, just that same look of patience, that gentle expression that he wears when he's thinking about Zagreus instead of himself or all the other things he should be worried about. It twists up inside him, dragging out the memory of every stupid thing he's ever done, until Zagreus can't look at him anymore.

"It’s okay," comes out of his mouth, meaningless.

Zagreus walks across the meadow, leaving the two of them behind. He waits for the door to close before drawing Stygius and impaling himself, because it's quicker than waiting, and Patroclus doesn't need to see another body. His mouth is still dry when he climbs out of the Styx; some things don't heal anymore.

It's a short walk to his father's desk, but the hallway looms in front of him, endless sHades fidgeting in confused circles, candle smoke and the warm, dusty smell of stone. Zagreus cuts through the line and stands with his feet just barely touching the gold fringe of his father's good rug. Hades makes no comment, even when Zagreus clears his throat.

"Father," he says, when he's too tense to wait any longer.

"Not so simple, is it?" Hades answers immediately.

"What?"

"Perhaps there are valid reasons why some people remain apart. Something you should consider in your ridiculous pursuit of an impossible ideal."

It would sting, if Zagreus hadn't exposed that nerve already. There's nothing his father can say that he hasn't figured out himself at this point. His feelings don't matter here, and neither does his pride.

"You’re right," Zagreus tells him, voice low.

At this, Hades looks up from his parchment, narrowed eyes investigating his son's face and posture for evidence of sarcasm, insolence, finding none. His quill pauses upright. Black ink stains the page, bleeding from the nib.

"I didn't know what I was doing," Zagreus continues, keeping his attention fixed on the skull engraved into the desk, at eye level with him. "I made everything worse."

"Have you come to beg, then? Make a spectacle of yourself in my court? Throw yourself upon my mercy?"

Zagreus bites the inside of his cheek until the brief swell of anger subsides. "If that's what it takes."

"Well." With an exaggerated flourish, Hades rests his elbow on the edge of his desk and leans forward, chin on hand. "Get on with it."

"Father, I-"

"Louder, and on your knees."

Before he has time to think, Zagreus lowers himself to the floor. It's warm down here. Little flecks of iridescence sparkle over the stone tiles, fading when he looks at them. His body feels numb, ghostlike, as if Achilles had taken a part of Zagreus with him to wherever he's gone, the good part.

"State your petition, boy," Hades intones.

"Achilles drank from the Lethe. I don't know what's wrong with him now." He can hear an exasperated grunt from his father. In his peripheral vision, purple and black, coming closer. "He’s not moving, or breathing. It's almost like he's ... like he's dead, except ..."

Zagreus trails off. A long sigh, then paper crumpling. A wad of parchment lands in front of him on the floor.

"I am losing count," in a growl, "of the number of complications arising directly from your ineptitude."

"My lord." Nyx’s voice. "Let him finish."

"Oh, very well. Continue."

He licks his lips, dry and starting to crack. "Tell me how to bring him back. Not for me, but for Patroclus, who's ... never done you any wrong. He doesn't deserve this. I'll take whatever punishment, I’ll - I’ll stay out of Elysium, just ... tell me there's a way."

A weighted silence fills the great hall, hushing even the shades, who must be observing this interaction with some interest. Zagreus watches the little sparkles play over the tile. His mind is empty, drained of everything except a low, humming tension, like a plucked wire.

"My lord," Nyx prompts eventually.

"I’m trying to think," Hades snaps. Zagreus can imagine the look on his face, the deep scowl accentuated by his beard. "You’ve created a situation without precedent, to my knowledge. And despite your assumptions to the contrary, I cared a great deal for Achilles. You could have simply altered his contract, or removed the stipulation preventing his entrance to Elysium, but that would have required forethought on your part. Now, presumably, with no contract and no memories to tether him to an identity, he can neither exist on this plane nor move on from it. He is, in effect, nonexistent. A nonentity."

Of course Achilles still exists. He was lying there on the ground. The Lethe might have pulled him away from himself, but Zagreus remembers who he was - who he is - and so does Patroclus. "I don't understand."

Hades's voice is rising in volume. "Must I explain everything to you? Do you think these contracts are mere words? That this responsibility of mine is meaningless pedantry? My work here -"

"I’m sorry, father," Zagreus mumbles.

"What? I can't hear you from down there, boy. Get up already. We need to discuss this."

He comes to his feet. Nyx is standing behind Hades with one elegant hand resting on his bare shoulder, her eyes half-closed and her mouth pursed in an expression that would look impassive to someone who doesn't know her as well as Zagreus does. She's upset, and she's come here to defend him in the only way she can. A spark of gratitude, briefly, buried under the ashes of his exhaustion.

"What, in the recesses of that hollow skull of yours," Hades asks, drumming his fingers now, "can you recall of the Titans?"

"They were ... they came before the gods on Olympus. Your parents. You killed them, didn't you?"

"Not all of them."

Zagreus meets his father's gaze and holds it. He can withstand his anger, withstand anything, as long as there's a chance. And he wouldn't be talking about his parents right now if there wasn't a chance.

Nyx's fingers tighten, almost imperceptibly, on Hades’s shoulder, her fine nails leaving ever-so-slight indentations in his ashen skin. Hades takes in a deep breath and lets it out, rustling the top layer on the stack of parchment.

"There is a small branch of the Lethe," he begins, with obvious reluctance, "that feeds into a pool, isolated from the rest of Elysium. I have reason to believe that the Titaness Mnemosyne has taken up a dwelling there. We have not spoken in ..." a pause, and then he snorts, shakes his head. "Mortals have a custom of invoking her name in some sort of aid to memory, as it is said her pool holds a repository of all mortal thoughts. I have had no need to call upon her myself."

The name settles into Zagreus’s mind, imprinting itself, echoing.

"Mnemosyne," he whispers.

"Find her, if you can. Bring Achilles to the water and tell her what a fool thing you've done." Hades retrieves his quill, jabs it with unnecessary force into the inkwell. "And if through some miracle she responds ... you may inform Achilles that I bear him no grudge, and he is welcome to return to the house. No punishment of my devising could match what you've already forced upon him."

"My lord." The epithet has a different connotation each time Nyx says it. This time, her voice is ice cold.

Hades makes a dismissive gesture with one of his massive hands. "Go, then. I have more pressing problems to solve. We'll speak of your punishment when you return."

Mnemosyne. Mnemosyne. It's something. It's possible. Zagreus finds his footing, sending a brief glance toward Nyx before he leaves, and she nods, just a small uptick of her head, but it means that this is real - he can fix this, he can bring Achilles back to himself, back to Patroclus where he belongs. Maybe they can start again with each other, and this time Zagreus won't be there to complicate it. They'll have each other and he'll have what little he can get of Persephone, and Thanatos, and maybe Meg, and he'll move on from the way he feels for Achilles - grow past it, like a childhood scar.

He lifts Stygius from its perch in the courtyard with intent for the first time in a while, swings and lunges just to wake himself up, get his blood pumping. When Zagreus crashes through the window, he hits the ground running, saying the word in the back of his mind and whispering it to make it real - _Mnemosyne._

* * *

The tiny plume is so light that Zagreus almost can't find it in his pouch. He holds it up between his fingers. Patroclus watches with a carefully controlled expression, arms crossed, as a vertical streak of light touches the short grass of the glade and Hermes emerges, toes pointed in his winged sandals.

"You’ve got company this time," the god announces cheerfully, nodding at Patroclus. "Whatcha need?"

Patroclus’s eyes narrow by a fraction. He glances from Zagreus to Hermes without moving his head.

"You ... serve at his command?"

"Oh, it's not like that," Hermes interrupts before Zagreus can explain, always a step ahead in any conversation. "Zag's a nice enough fellow. We all drop in on him once in a while. Keeps things from getting stale." turning to Zagreus, hands on his hips, pretending to tap his winged foot as it hovers in midair. "Anyway, busy busy."

"Do you know the titan Mnemosyne?" Zagreus asks. Every time he says it, there's a little rush in his chest, something halfway between hope and desperation. "Can you take us to her?"

"Ooh. Yikes. Hmm."

Hermes grimaces, and there's actually a brief pause, off-putting to hear in conversation with such a swift-moving god. Zagreus can feel his heart sink, just a little. Whatever Patroclus is thinking, it doesn't show on his face.

"She doesn't like visitors. Especially Olympians. Not even me, her great-nephew! And forget about Charon. A little miffed by that, to be honest." He taps his chin in thought, the motion fast enough to blur. "Tell you what I can do. Like last time. Give it a try, anyway."

The feather leaves Zagreus’s hand before he's even realized that Hermes was moving. The winged god blows on it, a little puff of air, and it floats between them, taking on a pink-orange shimmer, almost like the way the sunrise looks on the surface.

"Well?" Hermes prompts.

Vaguely apprehensive, Zagreus pinches the feather between his thumb and forefinger, and he can feel it tugging at him, almost like it's on a string. He waves it around just to experiment and the tip of the plume bends sharply as his hand moves, pointing rigidly in the same direction, somewhere on the other side of the river. When he lets go, it stays in the air, still pointing.

"We ... follow this? To Mnemosyne?"

"That’s the idea. Sorry I can't do more." Hermes makes a quick salute with two fingers on his forehead. "You be careful out there. I've heard stories."

Like that, he's gone. He can see Patroclus relax almost immediately, his shoulders lowering, releasing some of the tension in his jaw. His distrust of the gods must run deeper than Zagreus had realized; he hardly thinks of it as unusual anymore, being doted on by his distant family, but Patroclus had gone to war over them, or at least that's what the book said. Zagreus tries to imagine how he would feel if all his interactions went as poorly as Aphrodite and her stupid apple. He'd probably have strangled Thanatos too.

"He seems a friendly sort," Patroclus remarks, eyeing the feather.

"Most of them are," he says without thinking about it, then winces, following it up with, "I mean, it's probably different for me, being, you know, one of them, sort of. I can ... warn you first, if you'd rather not ..."

He can hear Patroclus exhale through his nose in a short huff.

"If only all the gods were like you, Zagreus."

Without adding any more to that thought, he walks over to the row of woven baskets crowding the riverbank, kneels and rummages inside a short, bowl-shaped one that Zagreus hasn't seen before. How many of these has he made? Zagreus watches him shake out and spread a length of green fabric over the stones. A golden hem - it must be Achilles’s chlamys. A little shiver in his chest at the sight of it, like he'd spun around too fast.

Zagreus does his best not to react as Patroclus stacks his goods in the center, silver and glass jars, thin wood for kindling, the bottle of ambrosia he'd given him before this all started. He folds it up into a bindle, which he knots to the end of his spear just below the sharp head. Noticing where Zagreus’s attention has gone, Patroclus sighs.

"I don't intend to use it, should we encounter trouble," he explains. "I swore never to raise my hand in violence again. If you've truly slain a hydra and both of our champions at once, I don't imagine you'll need my help."

Zagreus hadn't even thought about that. Since Achilles’s return, the shades near the grove have calmed down considerably, as if he'd marked Zagreus as an ally somehow. There's still a standing order from above for his head on a plate, though, and Hermes had made it sound like a dangerous trip.

"I’m sure I can handle it," Zagreus says, just as another, darker thought occurs to him. "But how are we - how do we ... carry ... If we're ..."

At this, the Myrmidon lowers his head for a moment, and Zagreus can almost see the pain weighing him down like a visible aura. He pushes two of the baskets aside. An arm lying on the moss, fingers flexed over a leather gauntlet. Patroclus stoops down, his back to Zagreus. When he comes to his feet, he's lifting Achilles’s body, hoisting the limp warrior over his shoulders. Achilles's legs hang down almost to Patroclus’s knees, lax and pale beneath the robe. Patroclus holds Achilles’s right arm pinned over his chest, locking him in position. His golden hair drifts down and obscures his face.

It's just like he's sleeping - this isn't forever. Once they find Mnemosyne, he'll wake up. And if Patroclus can handle this, if he can hold Achilles like this without breaking down, then Zagreus can get through it too - what excuse does he have? Patroclus has had more of him for longer and he's not crying about it, is he? He forces his eyes to stay open so the tears will dry at the edges, bites down on his lips until he can pull a steady breath in and out.

With his free hand, Patroclus holds his spear-bindle. He gives Zagreus a smile that reaches his eyes, not enough to obscure the pain behind them.

"Please don't restrain yourself for my sake," he tells him gently. "Grieve as you will for the things you shared, and I’ll grieve for mine. When he returns, we'll be better off for it."

Zagreus chokes. His next breath comes out short, the impact of a sob crushing his ribs. How does he always know what to say? Now he doesn't know if he’s crying because of Patroclus or because of Achilles’s hair - how wrong it looks, how it's just hanging upside down like that - or the way he'd acted the last time he saw Achilles, when he had just run from it because he gets to run away, but Patroclus has to live with this every day, the result of the mess he's made. It should have been a paradise for them. It should have been eternity -

Patroclus rests his spear against a tall basket and closes the distance between them. He pulls Zagreus close, hooking his free arm around his shoulders and holding him tight, a strange three-way embrace between the living and the dead. Unable to stop it, Zagreus presses his face against Patroclus’s breastplate and lets go of himself, tears dripping into his twisted mouth, wrapping his arms around Patroclus and feeling the brush of Achilles’s robe and hair on his skin. He can hear his own voice making sick little gasping sounds, his head pounding and his ribs aching from the force of it.

"I can't imagine," Patroclus murmurs into Zagreus’s hair. "After everything you've done to free him, I can't imagine how this must feel for you." Stroking Zagreus’s shoulder with his thumb. "But it wasn't your fault. You did everything you could. It wasn't your fault." Zagreus’s eyes are clenched shut and his body shudders with a heaving sob, muffled against Patroclus’s armor. "I’ll always be thankful to you for the time we had, no matter what happens. This was a choice that Achilles made. No one could have stopped him. I know he did not mean for us to be in pain like this, but if we're to bring him back, we have to face it before we can move on."

"But how do you do it?" Zagreus begs, his voice cracking, pathetic. "How do you ... stop? You're so ... it's like I can't tell. You just keep ... you just keep going like nothing's -"

"That’s a lesson I never want you to learn."

"But I can't -"

"It took years before I grew numb. Years." Patroclus’s voice has grown very quiet. "What I wouldn't give to be able to feel as openly as you do. I never want to see that light of yours extinguished. It’s carried me more than you know."

His hand stills for a moment on Zagreus’s shoulder, hesitant, and then Patroclus lets go, bringing his arm back to his side. He lifts his head away from Zagreus’s hair.

"Take all the time you need," he says, but something's changed in his voice, brusque now instead of soft. It feels like a door has closed that wasn't supposed to be open. Zagreus sniffs, blinks, tries to gather himself. The storm has passed - it's easier to let it burn out than to keep fighting it. He peels himself away from Patroclus, rubbing at his eyes, his wet nose, and then he can feel Patroclus’s hand one more time straightening out his crooked laurel, and he actually laughs - maybe he's losing his mind, but Patroclus is laughing too, and at least he's not alone. At least he’s not alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to everyone who's still reading! sorry for the delay - it's almost done!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> no content warnings that I can think of this time! please let me know if I missed something!
> 
> (may i humbly offer [my spotify playlist for this fic](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0npgO2tAbbXFBYjpyz8KKL?si=_KjjxgTUQrGr1GOeskihWA) in case anyone is interested in the weird assortment of music that i obsessively tie into everything here)

Zagreus has been holding the plume for so long that his fingers are cramping around it. He swaps hands, pumps his fist a few times just to stretch his fingers out. It's a tiny discomfort next to how Patroclus must feel with the dead weight of Achilles slung over his shoulders, one listless arm jostling as he picks his path down this root-covered hill. The feather has led them in a straight line so far, past the familiar statues and golden adornments of the Elysium he recognizes and into a thicker forest, blue-green foliage blocking out what passes for a sky and leaving only the river itself as a source of light - Zagreus hadn't even realized that it glowed. Trees are a pretty new concept for him, but he doesn't think they're supposed to grow this large or have their roots spread out like this, thicker than his waist, creeping over the little footpath and burrowing into the river like worms. It’s damp under his feet, and steam rises between his toes with every step; Patroclus was briefly concerned until he explained that it doesn't really hurt or anything when his feet do that, as hard as it is to describe the sensation to someone who's never been on fire.

Patroclus hasn't said much outside of that. He seems to be concentrating solely on the effort of moving forward over these roots, using his spear as a glorified walking stick, gauging the depth of the river with it once when the feather pointed to the other side. In the silence, Zagreus has tried to keep his mind in the present by pretending this is some kind of adventure, like one of the stories Achilles had told him when he was a kid - not the war kind, but the kind where the hero has to travel through strange lands and brave terrors unknown for someone he loves. It feels better than thinking about what they're actually doing, or how much farther they'll have to walk, or how sore Patroclus’s back must be at this point.

Zagreus used to wonder if he could have been a hero like that. Could he have killed someone, not knowing where their souls would go? If they thought it was their only chance at life, like Thanatos said? Hundreds of people, not even knowing their names - it doesn't seem possible, but Patroclus had done it, and Achilles too, both of them the kindest people he knows. He’s never really forgotten how it felt to be pulled off that horse and decapitated, how casually Achilles had thrown him into the river when he wasn't even fighting back. Maybe it's better that he doesn't understand. If he had known how badly Achilles wanted to forget - to erase his own memories - he would have tossed that history book himself.

At the bottom of this hill, the trees thin out into a pale meadow, patches of white flowers indistinct in the low-hanging mist. The warrior shades here are crowded around the remains of what might once have been an enormous monument carved into speckled gray stone, only a foot on a pedestal now, bigger than Zagreus's entire body. Just like back in the grove, these shades ignore him entirely, even when Zagreus comes close enough to see their blurred, vague faces. Curious, he stands in front of a spear-bearer and squints, wondering if he can make out eyes or a mouth, but they look like paintings that someone rubbed with a thumb, bluish and translucent, their bodies shadow-black outside of the vibrant decals of their armor.

"I find it interesting," Patroclus notes, startling him enough that he jumps back away from this shade, who remains motionless, "how the very structure of this place is built upon memory."

"What do you mean?"

"These exalted. Their weapons, their actions -”

At the sound of Patroclus's voice, the spectral warriors are turning their heads one by one in a strange sequence. He cuts off in quickly apparent discomfort. Zagreus watches in fascination as they wander toward Patroclus and their black hands begin to extend toward Achilles's body, touching his feet, his cuirass, his hair. Patroclus stands still under their attention. The shades are letting go of their weapons - hovering, glowing where they've been dropped - just to put their hands on Achilles and drag their fingers over the surface of his skin, the fabric of his robe. Zagreus can't figure out what they're trying to do. The shades aren't grabbing or tearing at him - it seems respectful, like they're drawn to him somehow.

"Do you see?" Patroclus asks, looking straight ahead. "They’re trying to remember."

He steps forward and the shades scatter like rabbits, grabbing their spears and disappearing into the trees. It leaves a strange, sick feeling in Zagreus's stomach; he's never really thought of them as _real_ , not in the same way that Achilles and Patroclus are real, but is that just because their contracts are different? Do they have thoughts? All they do is fight him and disappear.

"I’ve tried talking to them, but either they can't or won't speak. They have their weapons and their orders from your father, and I once thought that was the sum of it, but when Achilles returned I could see a semblance of personality emerge, perhaps, if they lingered near us."

"They all lined up for him," Zagreus recalls. Achilles standing in front of the golden door, Nyx's shawl loose over his shoulders, probably full of hope.

"All they remember is the glory of battle, the heroics, not the aftermath. But there are no corpses in Elysium." Patroclus adjusts his grip on Achilles's hand, tightening his fingers protectively. "When they see him now, they remember, and it frightens them."

A sick thought floats into his mind. He can't keep himself from saying it out loud. "Do you think they drank from the river? Is that why they're like that?"

"We should keep going," Patroclus says, pointedly ignoring the question, and Zagreus can feel a burst of shame rising in his throat - Achilles draped like a sack over his shoulders, both of them trying to block out the obvious - why did he bring it up? He shows Patroclus the feather, pointing straight through this meadow, and the myrmidon turns to follow its path. Biting his lip, Zagreus falls in line behind him, wondering if Patroclus will do what he usually does and say something to assuage his guilt, smooth over his feelings, but he just keeps walking, Achilles's long hair rustling like a fringe over his arm.

More thick, tangled roots criss-cross the dirt path past the clearing, motes of hovering light and petals still falling. Patroclus is choosing his steps carefully, mindful of the extra weight, pushing down on the butt of his spear for leverage. The air is warmer here. It smells salty, a little like the Styx. Out of nowhere, Zagreus is thinking now about Achilles on the corner of his bed, telling him about the Argonauts; he had thought they were sailing on a river, and he can remember the way Achilles had tried to describe the ocean, the spray and the waves, the smell and taste of it. _No, lad, the sea is like a thousand rivers. So wide that you can't see the end, just where the sky meets it. And the sky ... Well. You'll see it someday._

Lost in the memory, staring at the crackling moss under his feet, Zagreus almost doesn't notice Patroclus's misstep until his arms swing wide for balance and Zagreus nearly collides with him. Patroclus falls forward onto his knees, dropping his spear, Achilles's body sliding loose and heavy over his neck, and Zagreus has to help him pull Achilles's weight back onto his shoulders so he can stand up again. One of his legs is trembling.

"Are you okay? Should we -"

Patroclus makes a dismissive gesture with his empty hand, the other once again holding Achilles's arm like a strap over his neck. "Would you hand me my spear?"

"I could maybe ask one of the gods-"

"No. My spear, please."

The bindle has slipped off the spearhead onto the mossy ground, and green-brown tendrils cling to the fabric as Zagreus reties it to the shaft. Patroclus accepts it without making eye contact. There's nothing left for him to do except follow, keeping his thoughts to himself, even as the silence seems to make them louder, along with his doubts and the cramp in his hand and the tight, pulling ache under his ribs that he just associates with Achilles now, that's never really gone away.

A few minutes later, in the middle of this path, with beams of greenish light breaking through the canopy and no end in sight to the tree line, Patroclus stops.

"My apologies, Zagreus," he says on an exhale. "I’m going to need your help."

"Of course. Anything."

Patroclus kneels, grunting with exertion, the first time he's heard him complain during this entire journey. He sets the spear down. Slowly and with obvious gentleness, he leans forward with his head nearly touching the ground and lets Achilles slip forward off of his right shoulder, coming to rest facedown on the uneven moss. It takes effort to roll Achilles onto his back, and Zagreus comes to assist once it's obvious that Patroclus is struggling - Zagreus's hands on his knee and hip, Patroclus pulling at his shoulder, until together they manage to turn him, half of his leaf-strewn hair pinned under his neck, his dry lips slightly parted now, caught on the edge of his teeth. For all his size, he looks so vulnerable here, as though the Lethe had frozen him in a moment of sadness.

Thinking for a moment, Patroclus pulls the spear toward him and unfastens the bindle. He ties the ends of the fabric to his belt at the hip. Then, with a sound that echoes in Zagreus's heart, he cracks the spear in half over his knee with one solid down-thrust and throws the two pieces out to the side, landing somewhere in all these gnarled roots.

"But that's your-" Zagreus hears himself saying before he can stop it.

"I wasn't going to use it anyway," Patroclus says, with a short laugh. "I’ll need you to come around at his feet here."

Zagreus scuttles over to the other side of Achilles's impossibly long legs, leaving that thought behind.

"I’m going to lift him beneath his arms, and you're going to turn around and lift with his knees on either side of you. Can you do that?"

Zagreus nods; Patroclus's tone is gentle, but it carries the confidence and command of someone who's dealt with situations like this before. He tucks the plume under his laurels as snugly as it'll fit.

"Is it still pointing?" he asks, moving his head around, and Patroclus mm-hmms in assent. With that out of the way, he brings himself to touch Achilles's cold ankle, his hand still wanting to hesitate despite the clear order he's giving it. Zagreus pulls his mentor's legs apart and scoots between them. After a moment, Patroclus lifts Achilles upright into a sitting position and locks his arms over his chest. The warrior's head drops forward with a sudden, heavy movement. His hair is filthy now, and Zagreus swallows back another wave of emotion at the sight of it.

"Now turn-" he obeys, his back to Patroclus now "-and grasp him under the knees. I’ll count to three, and then we lift. Are you ready?"

"I’m ready," Zagreus says, trying to make himself believe it.

"Of course you are." Patroclus's voice behind him is almost tender. "Nothing can stop you, not even the will of the gods. Achilles should count you among his blessings. I know I do."

He's been waiting to hear something like this for hours, something positive and reassuring, almost dependent on Patroclus's praise now in the absence of anything else. He lets it sink in, savoring it like food, like nectar, until Patroclus speaks again.

"With your legs, now, not your back. One, two, three-"

Zagreus comes to a stand and brings Achilles up with him, pinning the warrior's knees to his hips. It's not as hard as he was imagining. Patroclus has the bulk of the weight, and Zagreus may not be a full-blooded god, but he's strong enough to swing a sword the size of his body - Stygius sheathed on his back isn't even getting in the way. He can do this. _They_ can do this.

"You’re in the lead now," Patroclus tells him, "but I’ll tell you if the feather changes our course."

Silence settles back over the three of them. This narrow path keeps winding deeper into the trees, less and less light filtering through, until he can't even remember how long it's been since he's seen the river. A stupid thought - what if the plume doesn't even work? What if they're lost out here and he's leading Patroclus on some pointless quest, some trick of the gods? Maybe his father knows where Mnemosyne is and is waiting for them to fail. A trap, or a riddle, the kind of thing Zagreus has never been good at. He knows he shouldn't say it aloud, but the longer this goes on, the more of these endless trees that all look the same and this faded green light, roots snagging against his toes and little rocks sharp on his soles, his hands starting to sweat and cramp even worse than when he'd held the feather -

"What if -" Zagreus starts, tightening his lips against it, but he's going to say it anyway - "what if it doesn't work?"

He has to suck in a deep breath afterward, as if holding the thought in for this long had blocked his lungs. The only thing he gets in response is a chuckle. A little snap of anger in his chest at that.

"You’re not even worried? I thought you hated the gods."

"You’ve already brought him back to me once, Zagreus." He can hear the smile in Patroclus's voice. "I’ll never again doubt what you can accomplish."

The anger snuffs out like a candle. In its absence, Zagreus is forcing himself to repeat what Patroclus has just said, replacing all of this scrambled exhaustion in his own head with Patroclus's calm, his optimism, clenching his jaw and pushing away the doubt until he can almost believe it.

"Would it help if we kept up a conversation?" Patroclus offers. "I don't mean to be so withdrawn."

"I….”

It would help, but Zagreus is ashamed to admit it, ashamed to admit how deeply he's leaning on Patroclus at this point. That dependence must be obvious if he's even asking. He licks his lips, wondering if he can phrase it in a way that sounds less pathetic.

"You must have some questions for me." Patroclus is just going to do it anyway, to save Zagreus the embarrassment of answering. "There’s much I’d like to ask you, as well, but I imagine you've been waiting longer."

Okay. Maybe an exchange, a one-for-one. "What were - did he know his parents? What were they like?"

If Patroclus is bothered by the first question being about Achilles, it doesn't show in his voice. "I didn't know his father. Has he told you of Chiron, the centaur? Chiron did the work of raising us. Wise and patient with all our foibles." He exhales through his nose in amusement, probably at some specific memory. "His mother was a sea nymph. I found her quite intimidating. It seemed at times that they spoke their own language, something past my mortal ears. I’m sure he could tell you more of her; she had little time for me." A pause. "One for you, then. Had you truly never seen his anger before? In all the years he spent at your house?"

Zagreus doesn't have to think to answer this one. "Never," he says, readjusting his grip on Achilles's knees. "No matter how many times I screwed up. It'd be my father shouting and barking orders, and I’d go to Achilles for ... Just to get away from it. He's the calmest person I’ve ever met, except for you," he adds, with a little half-smile that Patroclus can't see. This is helping - keeping his mind off of his feet, his aches, how much further they have to go.

"I don't doubt you. I’m just surprised. His anger was a constant force when I knew him." Patroclus is breathing heavier between sentences now. "I could never tell where it came from - was it the mortal or immortal blood? His kindness was human, and I saw how hard he tried to push that kindness into the rest of him, but ..." Taking a moment to breathe. "The gods had already set him on a course. It was too late to change the sails. Too late to change his anger."

"He did change, though," Zagreus points out. "After he ... when I knew him."

"I wonder if that was for your sake? Perhaps he saw a glimpse of himself in your father's rage and shaped himself to be the man you needed."

Zagreus is too tired to hold that thought in his head for long. It comes and goes without leaving a mark, without stirring up the kind of emotion that would keep him from walking.

"I wish he could have been that way for you," Zagreus murmurs. Seeing Achilles's fury once was more than enough. He can't imagine being subjected to years of those tirades, even with the amount of patience Patroclus has - though he'd caught a glimpse of his fury, too, once, with Thanatos.

"He will always be enough for me just as he is, however he is." Patroclus says this simply, with no depth behind it, as though it's the most obvious thing in the world. "I have only sought to change him when his behavior affected the lives of others, such as our men outside the walls of Troy, and then yourself, subjected to his anger and with no defense against it. I would not ask him to change for me. I would remove nothing of him."

Zagreus swallows. "I didn't mean-"

"I know you didn't, Zagreus." Patroclus cuts him off before the guilt can spread. "And I’m thrilled beyond words that he became a better man for you. I’m looking forward to meeting that man. Ah, left up ahead, here."

The path splits into a fork, and Zagreus swerves to change direction, waiting for Patroclus to sidestep and bring Achilles's body around behind him. He can see the river up ahead - a surge of excitement. Maybe they're getting closer, finally.

"Keep going this way?"

"Toward the riverbank, yes."

Stepping out from beneath the thick forest canopy, Zagreus has to close his eyes against the eruption of pale green light, throbbing in his skull. Somehow the Lethe has widened immensely since they left it behind; he can barely see the stone cliffs on the other side of the water, rushing beneath a thin, patchy layer of white mist that spreads all the way into the horizon. It looks more like the sea from Achilles's description - a thousand rivers all laid together side by side, the sound of it quieter than he would have expected, more like a whisper than a roar.

On their side of the Lethe, the moss blends in with countless tiny pebbles, smoother than the ones that have been dogging his feet this entire time, spreading out into the water. With any luck, the plume isn't pointing to the other side - there's no way they could cross something that vast, not without help.

"It seems your feather wants us to follow alongside the river," Patroclus informs him. "I’m certainly glad that Hermes is offering such specific turns and not guiding us as though we were birds."

Zagreus's feet shift and roll over the stones, forcing him to step carefully in a way that pulls the muscles in his back, his shoulders trying to compensate for Achilles's dead weight beneath them. This is the longest he's gone without dying since he first made a run for it. He can feel the exhaustion, the dull ache starting to set in - Achilles had told him to pace himself, once, to take some time in between so his body can rest, and he still doesn't really understand how the Styx works but he is definitely not at one hundred percent, barely even seventy-five percent at this point. How Patroclus is managing it without the benefit of immortal strength, he has no idea; he must keep his body under the same tight control as his emotions, never letting any weakness slip if he can avoid it.

There's a tiny stream up here running off from the main river, small enough that he could step over it. Zagreus lifts his foot just as Patroclus tells him, "We’re to follow this, I believe."

He peers to the left, and the stream is leading back into the canopy of trees, curving and vanishing behind even more twisted roots. A deep breath, in and out.

"I share that sentiment," Patroclus murmurs.

We're doing this for Achilles, he tells himself to drown out the stubborn complaints in the back of his mind. _Would Achilles care if he had to walk through another stupid forest? Would Achilles do it if he thought it could save my life?_

"Oh, Achilles," he can hear Patroclus saying in a sing-song voice behind him as they turn back into the shade, leaving the bright river behind, pebbles turning into soft, wet moss and damp twigs hissing under his feet. "I’m going to hold this against you for the rest of your life," and for some reason the way he says it has Zagreus struggling not to laugh.

Moving further into the woods, the trickling of the stream and crunching of their footsteps are the only sounds he can make out, though he could swear there's some kind of metal clanging noise every once in a while - it could be something on Patroclus's armor, or the jars in his bindle knocking into each other.

"Do you think," Patroclus asks innocently, "if we prayed to Zeus right now, he would turn us into horses?"

Zagreus huffs out a laugh through his nose, which is obviously what Patroclus is trying to get him to do, and it's working, at least until the red light becomes noticeable reflecting on the water, on the tree trunks, and his eyes are drawn to Ares’s beacon hovering in the space between two sprawling, massive trees, taller than anything he's ever seen. Zagreus stops.

"Which one is that?" The humor has drained from Patroclus's voice.

"Ares," he says, hoping his voice won't carry far enough to trigger the beacon. "It’s not really a good idea to i-ignore these," already tense, his voice jumping. Ares had insulted Patroclus before, in Achilles's company. Knowing how the man feels about the pantheon even without provocation -

"Delightful. Let's hear what he has to say."

"You don't want to-"

"I’d like to set Achilles down first, if that's all right with you."

A pit of dread growing in his stomach, Zagreus kneels, and after a moment Achilles's legs slip free from his grasp. He hadn't realized how sore his arms had become; now that they're free, his biceps feel like they've been cut in half, moving tight and jerky as he stretches. Patroclus has propped Achilles up against a tree trunk, carefully positioning his arm so it lays on one of the bumpy roots, the other folded in his lap. He's trying to keep Achilles's head upright but it keeps slumping over to the side, dead leaves and twists of moss and dirt knotting up his golden hair. Finally Patroclus gives up, cradles the back of his head and lays him down on the ground instead, whispering something that Zagreus can't hear, kissing his forehead, and the sudden surge of nausea in Zagreus's throat forces him to turn around and look away from it, look at the beacon instead, anything, but the beacon is gone and Ares is standing in between the trees instead with his arms folded, watching them both.

"Lord Ares," Zagreus blurts out, coming to his feet.

"It’s his name they should be venerating," Ares says, and then, louder: "Patroclus! I’ve wanted to see you ever since you led that magnificent charge on the walls. Tell me, how many did you kill in that hour alone? I had kept a tally, but I would like to compare it with yours."

Patroclus is standing at Zagreus's side now.

"Too many and not enough," he answers in a neutral tone.

"Cebriones, Sarpedon, cut down. Even my fool brother quailed before you. It was a moment of singular beauty. And here you are fighting Achilles's battles again, while he sleeps."

"Lord Ares-" Zagreus attempts to cut in, but Patroclus speaks first.

"I do it gladly, and with my whole heart. What is it you'd like from the young prince before we move on?"

Ares lifts his head to look down his regal nose at Patroclus, his blood-red eyes narrowed. "Death has not changed him. He still begs us to solve his problems, even in paradise. You should have heard him on his knees before my sister." In a low, throaty approximation of Achilles's voice: "'Oh, goddess, protect them from me. Keep them safe, don't let me hurt them.'"

Zagreus can feel ice crawling through his veins at the sound of it. Achilles pleading with Aphrodite - what had she told him? What if she'd done something to him?

"Are you finished?" Patroclus asks, undisturbed.

Zagreus whips around to look at him, astonished at his lack of reaction, but Ares is continuing as if he hadn't spoken.

"And your replacement," red eyes flicking over to Zagreus now, "the son of Hades. My sister thrice blessed you, in her generosity, and still Achilles departed. I suppose you are not very memorable." A cruel emphasis on the last word.

Patroclus's hand comes to rest on the small of his back.

"You can see what he wants from us," quietly. "If we don't give it to him-"

"What happened to being my kin?" Zagreus snaps before he can restrain himself, too many thoughts running through his head all at once, blurring into each other, shoving words out of his mouth.

"What happened to fighting towards Olympus?" Ares unfolds his arms, pulls at his knuckles one by one in a display of nonchalance. "I’m simply not interested in your interpersonal relationships, son of Hades, insofar as they seem to pacify these exalted dead instead of inspiring them towards the great deeds of violence that are their birthright."

"You don't know them anymore," Zagreus says under his breath, biting back everything else he wants to tell him - _they're not yours anymore. They don't have to listen to you. They're the kindest people I know and I don't care how many people they killed and you'll never make me care._

"Perhaps I don't. Perhaps you never knew them at all." A red mist rising up around Ares now, dissolving him from the ground up, and Zagreus lets out a breath when he's gone, some of the anger starting to recede. Had he just come here to taunt them? It seems petty, but he's learning more and more how well that description fits his kin on the mountain.

Zagreus turns again to Patroclus, wanting to reassure him, and something moves over Patroclus's shoulder in the trees - glints of light, black and pink, shifting between the branches - and he has just enough time to free Stygius from its scabbard before the arrows start flying. Patroclus drops to his stomach and Zagreus launches over him into the first wave, faceless soldiers splashing over the water with their spears out, archers still hidden in the darkness. The blade shines green with Artemis's boon and he buries it into the closest one's chest and through the neck of the one behind it, pulling it loose with a wet burst of ichor and vaulting into the next shade, slamming it into a tree hard enough to knock its spear away. He can't see Patroclus anymore but it doesn't matter - shadow bodies falling limp into the water, no souls to track down – pushing into the trees, shoving branches away until he can see the black outline of an archer, impaling it through the heart and kicking it off his blade with a foot, just instinct and adrenaline now. More arrows. Zagreus follows their arcs through the foliage, an archer kneeling and he slices into its featureless neck, Stygius sticky green-black now. They don't look human - they're not alive, not real. Zagreus is panting, heart racing, and he waits for the next one to show itself, a bright arrow thudding into the bark next to his head and he ducks, branches snapping, until he can see the pink outline of its armor and he dashes into it, knocking it beneath him with its blank face under his grip on the forest floor, trying to struggle free but he lifts his blade as far as he can and stabs through its chest into the dirt until it stops moving, the blue laurels highlighted against the blur of its skin. No more sound, no more arrows. He pulls Stygius out of the shade's stomach and comes to his feet. His mouth tastes like brass, dry and metallic - he bit his tongue, maybe.

"Patroclus?" he rasps, feeling around for the blood on his teeth.

He steps out of the tree line and back to the stream, littered with shade-corpses, bent and indistinct in the misty water. Patroclus is standing with his eyes wide, breathing hard. He doesn't seem hurt, just startled.

"Is everything-"

Pain exploding in his back out of nowhere, ripping up from his flank to his ribs - Zagreus can feel himself tip forward, black spots over his vision, and he lands on his hands, Stygius clattering into the water, trying to make his mouth work so he can warn Patroclus - he doesn't have a weapon, what if there are more of them? Wheezing, his breath thin and high-pitched, he looks up and Patroclus is running towards him, one hand lowered in a quick sweep to retrieve Stygius, brandishing it with incredible speed and bringing the blade down on something he can't see. Zagreus falls onto his side, rolling onto his back, pain flaring up everywhere he can feel. He holds back a scream, clenching his jaw to keep his mouth shut. Four of them, brightswords, Patroclus in constant motion, pivoting to block their attacks almost faster than he can track with his blurred eyes. Zagreus grimaces, blinking, and there are only two of them left now, until Patroclus makes a quick sidestep and finds an opening, one solid arc from the blade decapitating one and sending the other crumpling into the river. He stops, Stygius tight in both hands, breathing hard. Then he shoves it point-first into the ground and moves toward Zagreus, kneeling to inspect him.

"I thought you -" Zagreus coughs "- weren't going to fight anymore."

Wordlessly, Patroclus tugs the bindle free from his belt and unwraps the cloth.

"It’s not that bad," he adds, wincing despite his best efforts. "I’m - I’m not going to die from it."

"Are you able to turn?" Patroclus's voice is husky, a roughness to it.

Zagreus does his best, leaning on an elbow and trying to push himself up with his foot, but it hurts too much to put any force into it. Patroclus rolls him the rest of the way onto his stomach, his face cushioned by springy moss, pauldron already coming loose, and he closes his eyes as the skulls lift away from his shoulder and his chiton peels down to his waist, a searing jolt of pain as the fabric rips away from the open wound. Something cold pours over his back and he yelps in surprise, making fists in the moss, but then he can feel his skin starting to close, the little stinging sensation as the wound knits back together.

"Hmm." Patroclus is frowning. "Not quite enough."

Zagreus pushes up on his hands and sits cross-legged, the flames ebbing low across his toes. It doesn't hurt as much now, but he can feel a tugging under his ribs, a sharp stab when he breathes in. Usually he's moving too fast to pay attention to any particular wound. After all this walking, his hands aching from the weight of Achilles, a sword through his back and his feet rough with rocks and twigs, the thought of letting himself go and floating weightless in the Styx brings almost a physical craving. A rip of fabric startles him back into awareness - Patroclus has taken off his chlamys and is tearing wide strips from the edge. Before Zagreus can protest, he's wrapping the strips around his chest, bandaging over his ribs, tying the ends together in small, deft knots. Zagreus just holds still, a little nervous warmth at the way it feels to have Patroclus's arms around him like this, leaning in close. When Patroclus is finished, he lifts Zagreus's chiton back over his shoulder, strapping the pauldron in place at a crooked angle, but it doesn't matter.

"I think we could both use a rest after that," Patroclus says. He clears his throat and tries to smile for Zagreus, but his heart's not in it and it wanes quickly, leaving the baseline tension apparent in the way his eyes are pinched at the corners, his brows drawn low and flat, the only signs of exhaustion he can't hide.

"Yeah," is all Zagreus can come up with.

With a grunt, Patroclus pushes himself off the ground and returns to Achilles's body. One of the shade-corpses is draped loosely over Achilles's legs and he kicks it aside, limbs tumbling at uncomfortable angles as it rolls into the stream to join its brothers. He pulls Achilles upright at the waist by one long arm and slings him once again over his shoulders, taking a moment to rise, breathing heavily.

"We’ll keep going until we find enough room to start a fire," Patroclus is saying, already on the move. Hurried, Zagreus pulls his filthy sword from the ground, wincing as he slides it back into its sheath, then wraps up the bindle with a sloppy fold and tucks it under his arm.

Past the two trees where Ares had stood, the bank of the stream widens, curly pale mosses and ferns with thin tendrils growing right up against the water. Some of these trees have toppled at the roots, their trunks like columns. Zagreus hadn't realized that they could fall down so easily - how long have they been growing here? Centuries?

The grass up ahead is thinned with what looks like scorch marks, black streaks where the green has burned to ash, a small clearing circled by trees both standing and felled. Patroclus makes a pleased sound and holds his free arm out for Zagreus to stop. He kneels again, slipping Achilles down and positioning him on his side, bringing his knees up to his chest so it almost looks like he's sleeping, lifting his chin with a finger to close his slackened mouth. Zagreus hands him the bindle and watches, useless, as Patroclus spreads the cloth out, arranges the thin, dried branches into a cone shape, lines up the little jars and bottles in an order that must make sense to him.

"I could use your feet again," he comments.

Something he can actually help with. Zagreus holds his foot out to the branches with some difficulty - too stiff to keep up this posture for long - but the flame takes to the wood almost instantly, spreading up and over with an orange-white glow, bright against his eyes. Patroclus gestures for him to sit on the chlamys he's laid out like a blanket, and he joins him awkwardly, leaving his feet extended, toes touching the edge of the fire and keeping the flames connected.

Patroclus is screwing open another bottle, this one beveled and orange with a purple sash around it - ambrosia? His biceps ripple with the force of removing the cap, bare without the chlamys, and Zagreus catches himself staring, adjusts his gaze over to one of the enormous fallen logs, strange green things growing all over it, flaky and ribbon-like.

"The gods used to fill the veins of heroes with ambrosia to give them strength and endurance," Patroclus says, inspecting the bottle from underneath. "I hadn't yet found an occasion to sample what you brought me, but this seems like the right time, don't you think?"

"I could definitely use some strength and endurance," Zagreus mumbles. He wiggles his toes into the fire, trying not to yawn.

"Exactly."

Patroclus takes a long draw from the bottle, savoring it with his eyes closed before passing it to Zagreus. Sipping at it tentatively, unsure what to expect, he almost gasps at the flavor - thick and rich, lighting up his entire mouth, an indescribable taste. He has to go back right away for another swallow.

"Sorry, I - wow, that's good."

Frowning, Patroclus takes the ambrosia back. "You’ve given this to me and you've never tried it yourself?"

"I just thought you and Achilles - that you might enjoy it more than I would," Zagreus says, a little embarrassed at the sentiment now that he's said it out loud. He had imagined the two of them sharing it and talking about old times, maybe even laughing about dumb things they'd done together, a thought that just hurts to picture now, after all this. "Sorry," he adds for some reason.

"No more apologies from you. Drink."

Patroclus pushes the bottle into his hand as if he needs prompting to want another taste. This time he swishes it around between his cheeks, little bursts of flavor tingling over the roof of his mouth, before swallowing.

"Did you boss Achilles around like this?" Zagreus asks, already feeling a little tipsy. Talking about Achilles like he's somewhere else, gone for a walk instead of motionless and filthy on the ground a few feet away.

"Of course I did. You've seen how stubborn he is."

Patroclus's lips curve around the bottle and he tilts his head back, the coarse waves of his hair rustling behind his bare shoulders, deep brown and smooth. Zagreus keeps going back to look. It feels like he's forgotten his own aching, sore body - the pain is there when he moves, but this sweet wave of ambrosia has washed away his ability to care, leaving him free to think about other things, like this man sitting close to him by the fire, this man who's done so much for him, the only reason they've gotten this far.

"While we have a moment," Patroclus asks, returning the bottle to Zagreus, "I’m curious about what brought the two of you together."

"Well, father hired him as a tutor when I was ..." How long ago had it been? He can barely remember a time before Achilles.

"Oh yes, I’m familiar with that. I was referring to the circumstances that led to your ... active relationship."

"Oh." Zagreus looks into the amber bottle, at the liquid inside, as if he could see that moment under the stars at Pelion reflected in there. That kiss, laid out in the grass. Everything he'd ever wanted.

"I’ve made you uncomfortable," Patroclus guesses, a note of apology in his voice.

"No. I ... I’m glad, honestly, to talk about it." Swishing the bottle around, watching it gleam in the firelight. "I haven't told anyone, and it's been strange, because if it had been anyone else, Achilles is the first person I would have gone to."

"You’ve relied on him for so much. You can always come to me, if you'd like, Zagreus."

_I have been. Haven't you noticed?_

"Is he good to you?" Patroclus asks gently. He lets Zagreus keep the bottle, a small kindness among countless others.

"I never know what he thinks of me," Zagreus is saying, surprised at how much he actually does want to talk about this, the way it's been building up in his mind, worry and guilt and insecurity blending up into a horrible, toxic potion. "He just ... asks what I want. The only time he ever said what he was thinking, it was just because of Aphrodite, and since then ..."

"Aphrodite?"

"It was horrible. She made it so the words just came out even if you didn't want to say them. I told him I - about how I felt, that I ... that I loved him, and he said not to waste it on him." Zagreus takes another sip just to wash the memory of the words from his mouth. "And then Aphrodite did the same thing to him."

"What did he say?" prompting him, patient.

In a way, Zagreus is always thinking about it, sometimes in the front of his mind, sometimes playing in the background, sometimes only the good parts and sometimes the parts that still hurt to remember. He knows every dimension of it, sight and sound and smell and taste, Achilles's low voice, the taste of his mouth, of his cock, the mountain breeze and the wood smoke, and then his own room, like a dream transposed on a thousand other dreams that had come before, Achilles's grip tight around his fingers, the sound of his rough breathing, trying to be gentle - and Zagreus knows how much he had held back, now, after the second time. He had really tried.

"He said he didn't want to hurt me because he always hurts the people he loves." swallowing. "That he couldn't ... That it would never be ... all of him, because of you. And I said I didn't care, and ...."

"How rude," Patroclus sympathizes. "I never required such fealty. I’m sorry, Zagreus."

"But he grew up with you. There's so much ... I don't mind it. Not when it's you."

There was a time when he had been nervous around Patroclus, afraid of his judgment or of saying the wrong thing, when it had seemed like Patroclus could barely tolerate his presence and he had to tiptoe around mentioning Achilles's name to keep their conversations from ending abruptly. But none of this would have happened without Patroclus - without the stars at Pelion. Does he even realize how much he's given?

Zagreus hands him back the ambrosia, just wanting to look at his face again, the easy smile Patroclus grants him when their eyes meet.

"How does he compare then?" Patroclus asks casually.

"Compare?"

"To the other lovers you've had. Put them to shame?" Tilting his head again, his gaze light, curious.

"Oh, I...." Zagreus really wishes he still had the bottle in his hands. He can feel the hot flush starting to grow over his cheeks. "I haven't really... It's not ...."

Patroclus's brows rise in astonishment. "Your first?"

At the look on Zagreus's face, Patroclus quickly passes him back the ambrosia, and Zagreus takes a grateful pull. How much of this stuff is left?

"I’m not sure he's done you a favor there," Patroclus muses. "Can you imagine the pressure to perform knowing that Achilles is your standard for comparison?"

The ambrosia is starting to settle strangely, rearranging his thoughts, burying his fear and worry underneath a louder, more urgent emotion pulling at his throat - the way he feels about Patroclus, the way he's never been able to measure up, even worse now that he's gotten to know him and seen who he is. Zagreus puts the bottle down, concentrating.

"No, it's - it's the other way around. I don't -" trying to put this into words "-when he's, when he's been with you, I don't know why he would - I can't compete with you. I don't know what he sees in me when - you're perfect, you -"

"Zagreus, let me stop you there."

He looks up at Patroclus, contrite, his face still flushed.

"If Achilles can't appreciate what's right in front of him, the failing is his, not yours. And I’ll ask you not to speak poorly of yourself in my presence. That we both love the same man does not make us rivals."

Patroclus's eyes are impossible to read, something shifting, hidden behind them that Zagreus can't figure out.

"Should I bemoan my fate," he says in a strange tone, "that my lover's interest has turned to an immortal god with feet of flame, eyes of garnet and emerald, the charm of Eros himself?"

"But that's - I -" Zagreus blinks. "What?"

"By the gods, is your house completely bereft of anyone with senses, that no one tells you these things?"

Patroclus shakes his head. His voice is low.

"Zagreus, you are a treasure. Any man should count himself fortunate to receive your attentions. If I were in Achilles's place, surely I’d...."

He cuts off in sudden, apparent frustration, tightening his mouth and looking to the side, away from Zagreus. It's a departure from the way he's been acting this entire time, almost like how he used to close himself off at the mention of Achilles, only now there's no reason -

"You’d what?" Zagreus asks, hanging on the answer, not wanting this conversation to end.

Patroclus sounds almost angry. His dark eyes are blazing somewhere in the direction of the treeline, his jaw set square. "I’d make sure you understood what a rare, beautiful creature you are, and that you never had reason to doubt the depth of my love."

A pause.

"If I were Achilles," he adds, quieter.

"But you're not," Zagreus says, "you're ..."

He's Patroclus. What does that mean? What does that mean to him? It's something different, something that's bloomed sideways in the space next to Achilles, not overlapping that love but circling it, complementing it. It makes sense. It makes sense now. It's not all of him but it's not less than - he can't put it into words but he can feel it there, filling in the answers to the questions he could never ask Achilles. How can he explain it?

Zagreus reaches out slowly for Patroclus's shoulder, resting his hand over his cool skin. Patroclus turns to regard him. The mask is on again, guarding his thoughts, stilling his face, but Zagreus leans in anyway before he can let that mask intimidate him. He brushes his lips over Patroclus's closed mouth, easier than trying to say any of this out loud. Zagreus only stays there for a moment before pulling back, but he keeps his hand on his shoulder, hoping, waiting.

Patroclus lowers his eyes. His face stays the same. The mask hasn't moved an inch. Was this the wrong thing to do? Did it only make sense in his own head? Zagreus doesn't want to give up and let go but the amount that he's just gambled is starting to sink in - dizzied, his heart pounding and his breath coming weighted and heavy. He's put everything on the line - Patroclus, the only thing he's got left, not even looking at him anymore -

"You give so much of yourself," Patroclus murmurs after a long, terrible moment. "I can't accept this from you. I know you'd grant it to me regardless, if you thought that was what I desired."

"It’s not?" Zagreus's voice comes out sounding small, faint.

"I - that's not what I meant." A deep breath. "You give ... so freely. But I don't want your gifts. I don't want your favors. I want ... I want you to mean this, Zagreus, or else I would beg you not to offer me something so sweet that I cannot keep for my own."

"But you already have it," Zagreus says, searching for the right words, and then, "I love you."

It feels strange to say it for the first time without being forced. It doesn't feel horrible or painful or awkward, and he doesn't want to run away from it. It actually feels better now that he's put this together - the meaning of it filling his throat, spreading through him.

Patroclus is blinking, a twitch in his mouth. The corners of the mask are starting to break down. When he looks up at Zagreus, the rest of it falls away, leaving his dark eyes wide and warm - Zagreus can remember the first time Patroclus had smiled at him, the change that had come over his face, how magnetic he is without the sadness covering him like a veil. He tilts his head at Zagreus, just looking at him wordlessly. When he smiles, it sends Zagreus's heart into his throat.

"How could he deny you?" fingertips tracing his cheek, trailing into his hair, the softness of his touch making his skin tingle. "How could he leave you in doubt?"

Zagreus doesn't know what else to say. Patroclus's arm settles around him, pulling Zagreus flush to his chest, warm and secure - it feels familiar, even though Patroclus has never touched him like this before, as if the memory of Achilles is there, too, held between them. He lets Patroclus stroke his hair, leaning into the strong curve of his arm, closing his eyes.

"I would tell you a thousand times how deserving you are of his love. I would whisper to you in your sleep until you believed it."

"What about you?" Zagreus asks, muffled into his chest.

"This isn't about me." He can feel the vibration of Patroclus's voice against his cheek.

"If you weren't here - if I -"

"Shh," Patroclus tells him.

"I love you, Patroclus."

He doesn't say anything this time. Zagreus tilts his head up, trying to catch his attention. From up close, Patroclus's uncertainty is hard to miss, the way he's breathing, the way his eyes can't seem to focus on anything, roaming over the trees instead of looking at Zagreus right here in his arms.

"I can't take what's not mine," Patroclus says under his breath. Then, after a moment, his brow furrowing, "what was it Achilles told you? Not to waste your love? As though... As though you had only so much to give. As though it began and ended with him alone. But you're more than that, aren't you?"

He still doesn't know how to put this into words. How can he make it make sense?

"I’ve never met anyone like you. I - when you're around, I - you make me feel like - I don't know how to say any of this." The ambrosia is loosening his tongue while scrambling the words he wants to say, like Aphrodite’s curse has backfired. "I was so glad when you started talking to me. I really want you to be happy, and-"

Patroclus tilts his chin up and the rest of Zagreus's words dissolve into his full lips. The surprise of it sends a waterfall of hot nerves everywhere he can feel, making his hair stand on end. He opens his mouth, tentative, and sweet ambrosia mingles between them, slick on their tongues. With a sound almost like a laugh, Patroclus brings a gentle hand to Zagreus's neck, thumb brushing along his jaw - he can't really feel the beard, just the sensuousness of his mouth, soft and plush, honey-sweet. Patroclus separates from the kiss with a small, wet sound and Zagreus pulls him back in by the shoulder, wanting more, the stroke of Patroclus's tongue sliding back against his own, a careful, deliberate motion, almost like a dance. Warmth is buzzing all through his body, electric, this new feeling pouring out of his skin, wanting to be seen, to be touched.

"How fortunate am I?" Patroclus whispers into Zagreus's cheek, the sharp bristle of his beard tickling him. "Perhaps I owe the gods an apology."

"Hah, I don't know about that. Maybe -" Patroclus is nuzzling his ear now, taking the lobe into his mouth and running it gently over his teeth, and Zagreus cuts off with a little gasp - nipping at it, then kissing at the space below, tongue and beard smooth and rough at the same time.

"Does he touch you like this?" Working a path down Zagreus's jaw, half-bites soothed by his soft lips, and maybe it's the ambrosia but Zagreus doesn't even care about the sounds he's starting to make - Patroclus wouldn't care, there's no one else here to hear them - "Does he take his time?"

"Not really," Zagreus has to admit, laughing, feeling the hum of Patroclus's amusement in response against his neck. "He - ah." A deft tongue curling over the dip between his collarbones, the rasp of rough hair over delicate skin.

"Our Achilles can be a greedy lover. I’ve tried to be less so."

 _Our Achilles_. Pulling at his heart, a raw ache underneath this excitement. But it's okay - this is Patroclus. They can share it, share that love, and this too.

"You’ll stop me if I cross a line?" Patroclus asks. His voice has dropped to a melodic purr. Zagreus makes a noise of assent, the most he can manage, and then Patroclus's hands are curling over his bare shoulders, working the muscle with a practiced grip while he returns to Zagreus's mouth for another kiss, simpler this time. One lap of his tongue and then he takes Zagreus's lower lip in his teeth and drags it, gentle, almost like he's playing with all these different parts of his body, and the thought of it sends a hot curl of desire into his belly - the thought of Patroclus just touching him, toying with him slowly like a doll - he almost whines before he can get his throat to close.

"So sensitive."

"Am I?" It comes out as a squeak.

"Here. Lean back against me."

Patroclus lifts under his shoulders, his strength evident in how easily he turns Zagreus and pulls him close, the stiff leather of his cuirass already warmed from their contact, positioning Zagreus between his folded knees. With a practiced hand, he removes Zagreus's pauldron, slips the loop of his chiton down to his waist. Out here in the middle of nowhere, sprawling dark trees and shadows and a crackling fire - he almost has to laugh at how much it feels like the first time on Pelion, changing this strange landscape into something intimately familiar, the memory of it filtered through his sped-up pulse until only the good parts remain. He can feel Patroclus's broad hands slide down to his hips, then back up again, slower this time, gentle over the bandages, lingering over his nipples and circling them with surprisingly delicate fingertips. The feeling is so intense - a bright, hot pleasure like sparks burning into his skin - he's wriggling, pushing up off the ground with his toes, and then he can feel the unmistakable bulk of Patroclus's erection against the small of his back. He grinds into it without even realizing what he's doing, lip caught in his teeth, whining soft in the back of his throat instead of breathing, and Patroclus tightens his knees until Zagreus is pinned between them.

"Stop that," he chides, but there's a smile in it. "This is for you."

"Yes, sir," Zagreus says automatically - a twinge of emotion, realizing what he's said, but he pushes it away and Patroclus lets it slide without calling attention. Teasing him now, flicking one nipple with the curve of a nail, his other hand sliding down past his navel, stroking a pattern achingly close to the base of his cock, staying above the belt. No one has ever touched him like this before and it's almost more than Zagreus can stand, unable to keep himself still, twisting under Patroclus's hands and leaning his head back over his solid, bare shoulder, trying to draw in a straight breath but then Patroclus turns slightly to kiss at his now-exposed neck and he cries out instead, arching -

"If I were Achilles," voice low and throaty, breath hot against his skin, "this would be yours whenever you wanted."

"Patroclus - I can't -" Zagreus doesn't even know what he's trying to say, so worked up that he can't make sense of his own desires, let alone put them into words.

"Mm?" Patroclus pauses, hovering. "Should I stop?"

"No!" he shouts almost immediately, and then has to laugh at his own ridiculousness, met with a silent shake of laughter from beneath him. "I mean ... I just..."

Another moment, and then Patroclus brings his right hand to rest over his own knee, the other moving down to hold Zagreus at the hip.

"Take my hand," he murmurs. "Show me what you want. Don't be afraid."

Zagreus reaches for Patroclus's wrist. Biting down on his lips, steeling himself against embarrassment, he drags Patroclus's broad hand over to his chiton, leading his fingers to the inside of his thigh, over the fabric. It's as close as he can bring him without starting to shake from nervousness. Patroclus makes a low hum of acknowledgement. He strokes along the curve of Zagreus's thigh down to his knee. When he brings his hand back up, even more slowly this time, he lifts the chiton along with it until Zagreus's erection is revealed, tight and straining against his leggings.

"Hmm." Running a thumbnail over the red fabric, barely an inch away from what's waiting there. Zagreus's legs tense and his breath locks up from the referred sensation. "What should we do about that?"

Patroclus's voice is low, playful, as he draws another line over Zagreus's inner thigh to his knee and back up again. This is a side of him he hasn't seen before, fully in control, a natural leader. He can feel his heart juddering from adrenaline, all of his nerves lit up and prickling over his skin, the sensation rushing directly into his cock.

"I can't - I can't -" Shifting his hips now, desperate, as if he could nudge Patroclus's hand closer. "Just please-"

"Forgive me," Patroclus tells him softly. "I’m being selfish, listening to you plead. I’ll give you what you want."

He cups Zagreus through the fabric, fingers digging in, gripping him tight, and Zagreus sucks in a breath so fast that he almost chokes.

"Pull - pull the -" Zagreus is reaching frantically for the waistline of his leggings "- pull them -" slipping them down over his thighs, leaving his belt and chiton rucked up and folded, his bare cock pink-hot and aching. He doesn't even bother to take them down any further than that, leaving his hands fisted in the red fabric as Patroclus returns to him, working the slick precome over his palm, the muscles in his arm tightening, pinned over Zagreus's chest as he tends to his cock. So different from his own hand - different from Achilles - a deft rhythm, fast and hard, making up for his teasing.

"You like that, do you," Patroclus growls, a serrated roughness to his voice now, the sound of it electrifying.

Zagreus is breathing so fast that his head is swimming, hearing his own suffocated moans as if he were underwater. He hadn't even noticed where Patroclus's other hand had gone until he feels a pinch at his nipple again, the small bud rolled between two gentle fingers, and it lights him on fire - too much, all at once, overflowing - his toes curling, digging into the grass, flames leaping - words just coming out of his mouth, embarrassed, almost apologetic - "I - oh gods, I - I’m sorry I’m - just, just - like that please I’m close please don't stop I’m sorry please-" and he can feel his entire body lock up with a surge of pleasure, cascading, his hips bucking out of his own control as he comes into Patroclus's hand but Patroclus doesn't stop, working him through it, Zagreus shuddering and begging _please please_ with his legs splayed out and his cock still hard until he's been wrung dry, impossibly sensitive now, writhing just to escape from his grip and Patroclus releases him, fingers slick and white with come.

"A glimpse of you," breathing ragged, "would leave the temples barren."

Once he can direct his body to move again, when his muscles have stopped twitching, Zagreus turns over onto his stomach, still pinned between Patroclus's folded legs, and looks up at him with naked, unconcealed eagerness.

Patroclus swallows. There are beads of sweat on his brow, gleaming over his poreless skin.

"I won't deny you," he rasps.

He adjusts, straightening his legs and leaning back on his hands. There's vulnerability in his posture that hadn't been apparent when he was chasing Zagreus's pleasure - his dark brows slanted, an expression that's almost longing, yearning, even though Zagreus is right here in front of him. 

Zagreus buries his face in the fabric of the chiton, seeking out his cock with an animal hunger, still half-crazed by adrenaline. He wraps one hand over Patroclus's strong, solid thigh and braces himself on his other elbow, lowering, taking the head in his mouth and curling his tongue around it, tasting the wetness that Patroclus had saved for him - Zagreus can't even see what he's doing but he doesn't need to, sucking at it with fervor, taking a little more into his mouth at a time, all of this grateful, ecstatic energy jangling beneath his skin, wanting to give Patroclus this gift, the least he can do.

A warm hand curls into his hair, slides around the back of his neck over his laurels, cuffing him with a grip just below the threshold of pain.

"Oh, Zagreus," in a trembling voice, "your mouth."

Breathing out through his nose, making wet, obscene noises, he tries to work the base of Patroclus's cock with his hand while he sucks at the tip, but he keeps hitting himself in the mouth - just gripping it now, holding it steady so he can lower his head further, tongue swirling, wanting to perform well, to make Patroclus react, to overcome his self-control. Patroclus is stroking the back of his neck softly back and forth. Experimenting, Zagreus unfurls his hand, holds his breath and takes the entire length in until it hits the back of his throat, and he can feel Patroclus's muscles lock up with a low, shuddering moan, sending prickles of excitement over his skin, a pleasure almost like ambrosia from the sound of it. Zagreus pulls back and does it again, again, choking, eager, until Patroclus's fingers suddenly lock hard over his neck

"Careful - or you'll -"

Patroclus cuts off, makes a small, quiet sound, and then Zagreus can feel his cock twitch under his tongue, starting to spill. Zagreus pulls back to let him finish into his open mouth, catching it on his lower lip, his chin. Patroclus looks down at him, tenderness in his gaze, almost reverent, combing Zagreus's hair back gently from his forehead as he licks the last remnants clean, swallowing.

"So gracious," he whispers, breathing unsteady. "So beautiful. The best of the gods."

Patroclus leans down to retrieve the nearly-empty ambrosia bottle. He offers it to Zagreus, who rinses what's left in his mouth with the sweet liquid, chasing it down. Even now, seconds after his own pleasure, the first thing Patroclus thinks of is Zagreus's comfort, and for some reason it fills him with so much emotion that he drops the bottle and wraps his arms around Patroclus's chest, just breathing him in, feeling his warmth. Patroclus holds him close, resting his chin on Zagreus's head, stroking his back up and down in a slow, soothing motion.

"There," he murmurs. "There you are, Zagreus."

The praise, this feeling of closeness, of adoration, embeds itself into his heart. Right now Zagreus could climb mountains, swim the span of the Lethe, cut down every tree in this forest. He had fought his father with this same feeling before, carrying Achilles's touch with him, what love he could give. He can carry this with him to Mnemosyne - Patroclus by his side, the two of them unstoppable. Zagreus can’t keep from smiling, almost giddy, lightheaded with it – or maybe that’s the ambrosia, the exhaustion, the last of the endorphins fading away, but he’s still smiling when he lets go, folding up Achilles’s chlamys around the little jars again, stretching his calves as Patroclus hoists Achilles over his shoulders for the third time, and he checks the plume in his laurels, ready to finish this, whatever it takes.

* * *

"It’s stopped moving."

Patroclus's voice is cracked, scraping in the back of his throat. The air on this mountain is thin and cold, not like anything he's felt in the underworld. Zagreus can't feel his legs anymore. His feet are burning low, just sparks, nearly extinguished. In front of them, the feather drifts to the cold ground. It lands on a pile of grey stones, colorless.

"What does it mean?"

It hurts to talk. Zagreus is carrying Achilles's knees, the entire chain of muscles from his hips to his neck pulled tight in a constant ache. They haven't stopped in what must have been hours. The ambrosia wore off a while ago, leaving a dull throbbing headache and a dry mouth. He's starting to envy Achilles.

"Are we close?" Patroclus asks, as if either of them knows the answer.

The river flows down this grey, sparse mountain with a deceptively slow current; Zagreus had tripped once and it would have sucked him under if not for Achilles's weight pinning him to the gravel bank. It had hurt so badly to stand up after that, to lift him again. His knee is still sore from the impact. He has no idea how Patroclus is able to move at this point.

"Let’s just follow it until it stops," Zagreus mumbles.

Patroclus makes a noise of agreement, too tired to talk. He has to force his legs to move forward. The plume's blown off somewhere; he should probably go look for it, but there's no way he's going to walk all the way back once they fix Achilles. Zagreus has been dreaming of a quick death and the incredible relief of immersion in the Styx, not moving a muscle until he floats back to the house.

Further down the river, the air begins to crackle. It feels like little needles pricking his skin, but he can't see anything like snow or rain falling. Just another stimulus to ignore. Ten more steps, twenty, fifty. His eyes begin to drift shut, and he startles back to awareness with a jerk of his head. One hundred. Two hundred. Two hundred twenty, two hundred twenty one, and Zagreus lifts his head again to see the trees growing sparse, the gravel from the river spreading out around what looks like a lake. He has to stop and catch his breath.

"Is this - are we -"

"It must be," Patroclus whispers behind him. "It has to be."

As he steps out from the mountain canopy, the enormity of the sight before them sends a shiver of awe down his spine. This lake is massive, almost a perfect circle with the steep white cliffs of this mountain wrapped around it like Gaea’s arms, countless waterfalls curving down from the peaks and hidden by the thick clusters of pale green trees. There's no mist over this water - he can see through it, all the way down to the grit and stones at the bottom. The chill wind sends ripples over the surface, snapping against his dry skin, the struggling flames on his feet. They've made it. This couldn't be anything else.

"Let’s," Patroclus begins, breathless, "let's set him down here, and we can ..."

Zagreus kneels, laying Achilles's pale, cold legs down beside him. He turns to watch Patroclus bring Achilles's head back to lay in his lap, his face completely drained of color, dry lips cracked and fissured and his golden hair tangled with forest debris, a streak of dirt over his cheek. The thought occurs to him that he's still never seen anyone look more perfect. Zagreus misses him so badly, then, that it feels like his whole body has been hollowed out, like his own memories have been pried from him and spilled out over the ground, all of them wrapped up in Achilles, their Achilles. He and Patroclus were almost the same age when they met him - their whole lives spent in his presence, shaping themselves around him.

Patroclus is unwrapping what's left of the bindle now, four little silver jars. Setting Achilles's head down like a sacred object, he carries the jars over to the edge of the lake, held tight under his arm, and uncorks them one by one, pouring their contents into the water - something thick and golden, honey, probably; then what looks like milk; dark red wine; some kind of tan powder. Then Patroclus falls to his knees, bringing his head down to touch the stones that litter the ground.

"O Mnemosyne," he begins, his voice carefully controlled, "ancient one, older than the gods who walk Olympus, with your wisdom and sympathy for the frailties of those of us who must die, I offer you a libation."

Zagreus listens, his heart in his throat.

"We have brought you a man who was once favored of the gods, whose short time on the earth was marked by both greatness and pain, the fullest and sweetest love, the most terrible and unrelenting sorrow. We have come, myself as a once-mortal supplicant along with the son of Hades, regal prince of the underworld, to beg for the release of this man's memories and their return to his vessel. I will name him for you, Mnemosyne: he is Achilles, son of king Peleus and the Nereid Thetis, swift-footed, golden-haired, lion-hearted, the greatest of men."

A slight echo on the final word, and then silence. Zagreus swallows. Waiting, looking out at the water for a sign, a movement. The only sound is the faint rush of wind through the distant trees, his own pulse in his ears. Patroclus stays in supplication, perfectly still.

The silence drags on. Zagreus bites his lip, not wanting to interrupt, not sure what else to do. He finds the last of his nectar in one of the pouches on his belt, steps toward the water and pours it inside - another libation, maybe. The gods seem to enjoy it.

Silence.

"In the name of Hades," Zagreus tries, his voice coming out stilted and weak, "I greet you, Mnemosyne."

Silence.

Patroclus is still not moving. He must know more about how this works than Zagreus does. Too restless to wait, Zagreus heads back to Achilles's body, lifting him under the shoulders with a grimace of pain, dragging him toward the lake until his bare shoulder nearly touches the water. He scoops the empty nectar bottle beneath the surface until the bubbles are gone and gently pries Achilles's mouth open, tipping it past his lips. The clear water pools and runs in a trail down his cheek.

"What do we do?" Zagreus asks no one. "What do we do now?"

Patroclus straightens. He walks stiffly over to Achilles's side, taking the round bottle from Zagreus's hand and pouring the water in himself. He massages Achilles's throat. The water stays level in his open mouth, a disturbing surface layer, dripping over his chin. Patroclus holds the bridge of Achilles's nose, as though he could trick him into needing to breathe and swallowing what's there.

Silence.

"Mnemosyne!" Zagreus is shouting now, as loud as he can with his throat still cracked and dry. "Mnemosyne, can you hear us?"

On an impulse, he crawls over to the lake, hands and knees cold on the damp gravel, and dips his face beneath the surface, trying to scream her name into the water with all the breath in his lungs. He holds it there, opening his eyes, vision blurring, his lungs burning, until he can't stand it anymore, pulling his head back and sucking in air, in and out, then leaning into the water again, screaming. This time a hand on his chiton tugs him from the lake. He spits, hair dripping over his face, water stinging his eyes.

"No," is the only thing Patroclus can say to him.

"What if she's not here?" Zagreus is coughing, panting for breath. "What if it doesn't-"

"We’ll find a way," Patroclus tells him, a high-pitched note of desperation undercutting his words. "We’ll find a way. You brought him back to me once, you can -"

A sound like a bell, deep and resonant. Zagreus freezes. Patroclus's eyes are wide. Another bell, louder this time.

It isn't a voice, but he can hear her in his mind, like reading words that someone has written on the darkness of his closed eyes. Zagreus covers his face with his hands so he can hear her better, focusing on the stinging feeling that spreads through his head, the bell sound, trying to understand her.

_A trade._

"A trade?" he repeats out loud. "You want to trade? What? What do you want? You can have it. Anything."

_Something of yours._

Reaching into his head, cold fingers like needles plucking his thoughts aside, going deeper, looking for something. What does she want? Zagreus can see his house, the columns in the great hall. His mother's garden on the surface, the wind making the wheat dance, her astonishment when she had realized who she was. His father saying something to him and turning around – his own small voice shouting his name as he's walking away.

"Memories. You want my memories," Zagreus whispers.

_One._

He peels his hands away from his face and blinks to clear his vision. Patroclus is on his knees, eyes closed, tears running down to his chin. What is she taking from him? What is he bargaining for?

 _One,_ insistent now, and he has to close his eyes again, Mnemosyne's needles carving through his entire life, penetrating into the memories that resonate, the strongest emotions, greedy for them, hungry - she's stuck here, Zagreus realizes, trapped under the water, living through these glimpses into the lives of others. This is the only thing she has.

_Losing patience._

"Okay," he says. "Okay. One. One memory."

The night sky, scattered with stars. A fire burning. Achilles's hands on his face. _The way you look at me._

"Not that one." Zagreus's chin is trembling. "Please let me keep that one."

Tearing the book from Patroclus's hands, ripping it in half. Crumpling the pages, throwing them to the ground, Achilles red-faced and unrecognizable in his anger. It was awful, and it makes him sick to think about, and he hopes he never has to see anything like that again, but it was still him, still Achilles, and Zagreus doesn't want to lose any of him, even the bad parts. If Achilles has to suffer through it, then Zagreus wants to be there too, for all of it, everything, no matter what.

_Choose._

Achilles with his brows drawn, head tilted, frowning. His eyes are blank. He doesn't know what Zagreus is talking about. _The punishment? Anything? Do you remember?_

This one - she can have this one. It's not real. It wasn't really him. Achilles was already half gone and he never wants to remember how that felt ever again.

"Take that one. Take it. Take it and give him back. The way he was."

The needles withdraw. Zagreus is blinking now, his ears ringing. He can see Patroclus on the shore with Achilles's head in his lap, his hands circled around Achilles's chest, all matted hair and clammy skin.

"Is he-"

Their eyes meet, and before he can say anything else, Achilles bucks under Patroclus's grip, his back arching, and Patroclus makes a startled sound, tightening his grip under his shoulders. Achilles turns his head, coughing, gagging up clear water, pouring out of his nose and mouth now. Patroclus is pinning Achilles's arms down now, and Zagreus kneels over his legs without thinking, using all of his strength just to keep Achilles from kicking him off, fighting it, thrashing -

"Achilles, just drink it," Zagreus begs, holding his knees down. "You need to drink it, please, it's okay, we're both here-"

"Achilles Pelides. Calm yourself. Breathe in."

With a desperate jerk, Achilles pulls an arm free and swings blindly at Zagreus's face in front of him, colliding with his nose, a sick crunch. Zagreus cries out in surprise, letting go to touch his nose on reflex, blood gouting over his fingers, pouring onto his lips.

"Calm yourself!" Patroclus shouts, struggling to pull his arm back, taking hold of his wrist.

As quickly as it began, Achilles's body goes limp, falling backwards - but he's breathing, his chest is moving. Zagreus leans forward, not even thinking, dripping blood over Achilles's cuirass, his neck. His eyes open, blue and clear. He blinks once, twice. Patroclus holds still, waiting.

Achilles licks his lips. His arm rises, shaking. He reaches for Zagreus's bloody hand and slips his fingers around it. Then he pulls Zagreus's hand down, slowly, and brings it to his lips, keeping it there. He doesn't have to say anything - Zagreus knows what it means.

“Achilles,” comes Patroclus’s soft voice, full of wonder.

Zagreus can’t speak. He buries his face in Achilles’s disheveled hair, bleeding all over it, gripping his hand hard enough to hurt, and Patroclus is saying something that he can't even hear – both of them, both of them, a second chance – a third chance – and he’s praying, silently, to Mnemosyne, to Hermes, to Nyx and his father, thanking them with all the energy he has left, and he stays there until Achilles has recovered his voice, until Patroclus asks, smiling, for his turn, a white-gold glow under the surface of the water receding and disappearing, sinking to the bottom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ALMOST DONE! please come yell at me [on twitter](https://twitter.com/stellympho) if you would like!


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